Faas Aaz
by StealthyFiction
Summary: Kmeme fill. She is mortal and dragon, woman and warrior, strong and broken. She is imperfect but she is his. All are his, for he is dragon, and he is warrior and strong and perfect and right. He is Alduin. She is his. Alduin/F!Dragonborn Post-game during a hypothetical Second Dragon War.
1. Death

So this is an "Alduin/F!Nord!Dragonborn" story. I use quotations because they have a relationship per se, but it is not a healthy one and it isn't a sexual one. Dovah parts just don't really match up with human parts. xD

It's a fill for the Kink Meme, based on a prompt that wanted Alduin to defeat, but enslave the Dragonborn as he had once enslaved most of the mortal realm. So this is spoilerific, and actually begins in Sovngarde and continues well past the end of the game. If I ever seem to be heading off track, let me know. I tend to write incredibly long, but slow stories and I seem to be having the same problem here. If Alduin gets just too OOC (which he will be, due to his increased 'emotion' & 'expression') let me know. I'm also very interested in learning more lore & getting that right, as well as figuring out the grammar for the Dragon Language. As of now, I simply use words but don't really know how to organize them.

The Dragonborn isn't named and isn't really described, but I stuck to the Nord race.

This is a work in progress. I do have several chapters/plot points written out as well as the ending, so now I'm just trying to figure out ways to connect them. I'm also considering including another, human, relationship for the DB, if only to sneak in some sex for the Kinkmemers. If those parts do arise, they'll be over on livejournal. haha. Hopefully you'll enjoy. :)

**Warnings**: Dark, angsty, long, slow, enslavement, "mind rape", might have minimum gore and sexual content, SPOILERS.

* * *

><p><strong>Death<strong>

_Could there be a love beneath these wings?  
>If we suddenly fall should I scream out<br>Or keep very quiet and cling to my mouth?  
>As I'm crying, so frightened of dying.<em>

* * *

><p>Pain.<p>

After hours of battle, of scrambling to survive, it was all she could feel. The rough bark splintering into her flesh. The dark bruises dotting her skin and trailing up her back. Was her spine broken? She could not tell, could not feel, too consumed with the pain, the raw scrapes, the black burns, the deep gashes. Too focused on the dots spotting her vision, the way the edges faded in and out as the fire in her head tried to drag her away from here, this realm where all was lost. She didn't have the heart to look at her wrist, the way it was bent terribly backwards, snapped at the bone when he rammed her mace from her grip. Her other hand was still intact, but she didn't have the strength to lift it. Didn't even have the energy to cast that soft restoring glow. All of her was depleted.

All of her was lost.

She heard the harsh beating of his wings, winced as the air stabbed at her form crumpled against the broken tree. She tried to bend her neck back, tried to raise her eyes to his, but everything was so heavy. She was so tired.

"Daar Lein los dii, _Dovahkiin_." His voice was finality, and rumbled from his chest like felt dragged over sandpaper. It was deep, and caused the ground to quake and rattle. It was hoarse too, though not as damaged as hers. Her mouth fell slack, trying to push out the words, but only blood flowed, her throat useless, burned and raw from the Shouts that had torn from her soul. The Thu'um was no gift. This blood was no gift.

He approached her, head high, fangs still bared. He too was bleeding, but not broken. He stopped just before her and unfurled his wings, flung them into the sky, sliced apart the wind. The bright light from the swirling clouds disappeared, and she was left in darkness. A comfort to her weak blue eyes, but a terror for her mind.

He dipped his head, tilted that terrible gaping maw to pinpoint her bleary gaze. His glare was sharper than his razor teeth, than the spikes that sprung and twisted from his scaled hide. Unable to manipulate their jaws, dragons depended on their eyes to express emotion, and Alduin's were hot and dark, hard and cold and so, so merciless. The spared fingers of her right hand twitched, but she knew she could not reach her blade. There was no hope, the bodies of her comrades strewn across the battlefield, the ground ripped and uprooted, split as though the very world was falling into its depths, falling to him. The Dragonborn sprawled broken and defeated at Alduin's feet.

This was the end. The world belonged to the World Eater.

His jaw spread open but did not descend upon her. Instead, he spoke again.

"You will make a fine slave, Sahlo. Joor. Saviik." A malevolent mirth tipped his threat, warm in a way far more chilling than the hard, cold words he had spoken before. When he mocked her weakness, her mortality, she felt only utter disgust, only complete resentment. How dare he place emotion, _humor_ behind his voice. How dare he speak like a mortal, draw another line of similarity from Dovahkiin to monster. How dare he sound so pleased.

She could not hold his glaring gaze any longer, slumping even further against the shattered trunk. She was slipping away, falling deeper into that darkness at the corners of her vision, the shadows that clutched her from beneath the dragon's wings. She was dying, approaching some unknown plane in Oblivion as the failed Saviik. The savior who could not save.

Alduin only purred softly, and took to the sky just as she left the world.


	2. Depart

Thanks for all of the feedback! The reviews, favorites, and story alerts are very encouraging. The reviews especially help progress the story.  
>This chapter is a boring bummer, just a filler really. Consider it a loading screen. Haha. I wrote the last chapters first, and I'm still working on making connecting scenes. I just wanted you to know I was still working on the story. Normally I toss 90% of what I write, but this idea won't leave me alone.<br>Because the ending is complete, I can't change the plot too much, but if you have any ideas of something you'd like to see, I'll try to fit it in. I need a few more scenes anyways.  
>Biggest problem right now is whether to leave Alduin's "attentions" completely unrequited. They may be a pair, but he doesn't love her and she won't love him. Maybe in the next one. ;)<br>Upped the rating to **M** for later chapters.

* * *

><p><strong>Depart<strong>

_Dig me out from this thorn tree_,  
><em> Help me bury my shame<em>.  
><em> Keep my eyes from the fire<em>,  
><em> They can't handle the flame.<em>

* * *

><p>It was cold when she awoke. Sunlight was trickling through the bare trees, but provided little comfort. The ocean wind was rising through the mountains, stirring the snow into tiny waves of white. The wagon lurched and rattled as it was dragged through the deep canvas. Furs prickled her skin and back, which was not broken but very sore. The fur was rough and tangled, and tiny strands stabbed into cuts and raw skin, irritating her already worn body.<p>

She was tightly bound. A woven cloth was stuffed between her chapped lips, stretching and tearing them at the corners. The gag prickled with magic. She knew not what kind, having only learned basic restoration and ward spells, but she knew it was meant to block the Thu'um. Her chest and throat felt empty, as though the cloth was clogged deep in her neck, as though the magic was draining her soul right from her core. She felt off. It was like she had no center, no balance. Still, she tried to move.

Iron manacles dangled from her arms, and the broken bones in her left wrist screamed when she shifted to sit up. Her heart stopped. A Draugr suddenly came around the cart, bent over it and peered at her with glazed eyes. How fitting that after years of undeath, the Draugr would immediately return to serving their filthy dragon masters. The metal links of the chain clinked as he lifted the lead. And jerked. Her stomach lurched and she fell to her knees, sending the wagon tumbling. Her wrist cracked and bile stung her raw throat. She briefly wondered if she would suffocate on her own bile and saliva. It was debilitating, the pain, but the walking corpse felt no remorse. A paralyzing ice snuck up her arm and crushed her lungs. She tried to tap into her petty supply of magic, but that too was disconnected. So she suffered. She wanted it to end, but nothing would make her beg or serve. _She_ would never surrender her humanity.

When her captor went to pull the chain again, she rose, shakily, to her feet despite the protest in her knees. She still felt so weak. Why was she alive? She didn't understand, nor want, this mercy.

The snow was falling softly, but even the tingle of tiny flakes stung her cuts and chilled her skin. Her armor was gone, though she knew most had been destroyed in the battle. Ragged furs provided little help, and still scratched against her wounds, but she was thankful to be wearing a pair of worn boots. Frostbite was a true danger, even to a Nord.

Jagged outcrops of icy rocks sprung from the ground on either side of the procession. She turned as they began to climb a particularly steep slope of the mountain, and saw several dozen Draugr dragging and marching behind the wooden cart. There were no other humans. But more importantly, there were no dragons.

They walked onward for several hours, until they were close to sea level and proceeding across warm, fallen leaves. It was already Autumn, Sun's Dusk. Where had she lost so much time?

They stopped only to kill trolls or sabre cats. The wolves dared not attack such a large group of undead. They didn't have enough meat between them to worth the certainty of death.

When night began to fall, Draugr and Dragonborn made camp. The fire was warm, but she was forced to sit uncomfortably close to the flames, and the small burn on her shoulder and chest began to sizzle again from the heat. Those around her cared not and did nothing. Only one pallet was laid out, and after a few bites of overcooked rabbit, she was forced to lay in it. The chain was removed, but the handcuffs stayed trapping her hands together. She tried to study the Draugr as they stood around the camp fire, then gazed at the lights dancing softly across the dark canvas. She found little comfort. Such beauty was deceptive.

The following day, after a few more miles of brisk traveling, the female Draugr now guiding her stopped beside a leafy tree. She heard the crinkling as the other soldiers inched forward across the autumn leaves, but all stopped just behind the wood cart. None moved, though she didn't understand why. There were no threats nearby, no cities or mills or even caves. Just an empty forest.

But then, she heard it. A great roar pierced the quiet air.

Instinctively, her muscles tensed, her eyes dilated. The blood in her veins whooshed and buzzed, excited. She could sense him and she felt her soul swell and tingle, pushing against her form like a magnet pulling towards metal. She tried to remember where she'd placed her mace and sword. Both, she recalled, were lost, broken by Alduin's thick skin, leaving her naked and defenseless. And her will was crumbling too, after only a few days as captive and none as Alduin's slave. The physical strain, the silence, the disregard, the cold, compassionless glares were growing too much.

The blood dragon landed, slapping his thick tail against the ground. The world trembled. Dust and debris flew wildly as the land caved into a deep crater. The crest on his head fanned and flared as though he was impatient. "Aar, take the captive directly to Lord Alduin. Nu. And clean her up." He flew without a glance in her direction, and the lead Draugr roared to quicken their trek.

She pondered his skin, the way his scales shined green in the sunlight. He was different, the color of life. Not death. Alduin glittered black as coal, melting into the darkness, the perfect umbrae. All of Alduin was perfect, molded in Akatosh's image, like black steel set to harsh angles and long thorns. He was destined to bring the end and the beginning. But was he perfect, this monster, this ravager, Destroyer of all? Was he as he was _meant_ to be if he had yet to devour the world, instead enslaving it, molding it to **his **will? Or was this his right, as First Born, to do as he wished before he fulfilled his purpose, like the spider that first ensnares the tattered moth? Or was his destiny a lie, as hers had been? Prophecies were now just possibilities, not promises.

She followed the dragon's swift form through the clouds and watched as he approached a village in the distance. A second glance, and no, the "village" was not some set of hobbles sheltered at the base of a mountain, one she recognized was just north of Fellglow Keep. She could see smoke still dancing atop the burnt forest that had once cradled the valley. Huge, dark stones were rising from the horizon, towards the sky where red banners waved. Dragons soared above the black constructs. The world was already being changed, reshaped. And she had no doubt that the mortals were being put to the task of tearing and rebuilding this new world. It was not a village, but a kingdom.

**Alduin's** Kingdom. How ironic for the Bane of Kings.

At her first opportunity, she would _burn_ it to the ground.


	3. Daybreak

Truly sorry about the nearly _year long _delay. Life really kicked me in the butt and mixed with writer's block for what would have been this chapter, I basically gave up. (I haven't even finished Alduin's Bane on Skyrim) But I decided to skip the meeting of Alduin to throw in this "memory" piece instead. Still working on the next chapter, and after that things should be smooth sailing. We'll see if I can handle it, I'll certainly try! Consider this a means of saying "Hey, I'm alive! And I haven't forgotten!" Ch. 4 has been split into 2 parts (it was uber long). Ch. 5 will have Alduin exclusively, but you'll find he's as much a part of Ch. 4. :P (Can you tell I'm trying to placate you?)

* * *

><p><strong>Daybreak<strong>

__I've always been the tower,  
>But now I feel like I'm the flower trying to bloom in the snow.<br>The danger and the power.  
>Friend and the foe.<em>  
><em>

* * *

><p>She was lost in darkness. Just floating, weightless, through the Void. She could not see nor feel. There was no light, no air, nothing. She was lost in a plane outside the possible. There was no sense of time, no sense of tangibility.<p>

She thought she was moving, but there was nothing to move, nothing to touch or gain traction on. She couldn't hear her heartbeat, couldn't hear the Dragonblood coursing through her veins. She didn't exist.

But then, the world yawned, awakening. A loud, low _whoosh _purred in her ears, like the sea in a conch shell. She felt the wind caress her skin, felt hair tickle her ears and neck. She was still floating, but there was now form and so she stretched her arms and dipped her legs, swimming in the black.

Then there was a growl, a deep, clear roar that pierced the waves in her ears. Then there was the crinkling, the crackling and popping and hissing. Then there was heat. Hot, burning heat crept across her skin, singed her hair and chapped her lips, like she was basking in the Sun's very flames, still millions of miles away but suddenly so close.

There was light, bright, blinding, golden light that split the darkness, tore a roar from its halved form. Fire rose from the cracks, licking the black away. She screamed, but it was wordless and silent as she flung her arms back, fought to escape the heat, to shield her eyes from the burst. There was still no world, no ground to run across and so she stayed suspended in the ever dying pool of darkness, clinging to its cool, soft depth.

And then, there was him.

A new black fought through the flames, but this had no soft edges, did not pool gently in the corners. It was not formless. It was thorny, spiked, like a rose's twisted stem. It was huge and hard and scaled and frightening. It was her first vision of him as he stuck his head through the tower's gaping hole, as he struck forward like a cobra hoping to bite, to poison, to devour. The dust from the fallen stones stung her eyes like sand in a desert storm, but she peered up as he caught her eye.

She turned cold, heavy, and stayed motionless on the stairs where she had tumbled down when the wall collapsed. She felt no fear, no shock, just a cold, heavy dread that froze her and left her speechless. The adrenaline had been knocked from her, and time slowed as Dragon and Dragonborn met gazes. She could vaguely hear Ralof, screaming **run, run, run **but she could not obey. She was fixated here, pinned by a monster's brilliant orange eyes. The dragon was destroying the village, lighting buildings on fire and snapping his drooling maw upon the soft forms of Stormcloaks and Legionaires, prisoners, hunters, bakers, dressmakers. He slaughtered old heroes and fresh widows and innocent children and guilty fathers just trying to get by. He didn't care for the lives he took, the ones he destroyed. They were merely ants, pesky vermin to be annihilated or trained for his perfection, his world.

But he was not breathing fire, was not ripping her flesh apart with his bloodstained fangs. He just stared, wings slowly beating, with sharp, thick claws embedded in the stone. It was no more than a moment, a few seconds, but his arrogant glare penetrated her, as though he was examining her. She suddenly felt so lesser, so tiny and insignificant. She began to feel her heart thrum wildly, her blood rushed in her ears as it never had before. Her skin tingled and she felt drawn to him, pulled towards the dragon. A heat grew in her chest, her belly, and flowed under her skin, through her veins. The feeling was ethereal, like she was out of her body. She was suddenly aware, for the first time, of the force of her soul, like it was an entity within her body, but _beyond _it. And he was here to behold her inner discovery, though she did not know yet what she had stumbled upon.

But he knew. And she saw the understanding.

An arrow whizzed through the smoke, dug itself into his wing. He made no noise, no roars of anger or pain. His clutch on the wall didn't lessen, even as blood poured over his scaly grip. But nor did his gaze, still hot and burning. His eyes themselves seemed to crackle with the raw energy of fire.

Another arrow was knocked from some archer's bow. Certainly a different fool, for they both struck within mere moments. It whizzed against the stone by the dragon's arched neck, ricocheted and whistled off into the sky. He regarded her a final time; with a steely glance, the threads were broken. She watched as he disappeared from the gaping hole in the cobbled wall, but there was a new rift, a split in her mind that left only muddled confusion and fear in its wake. She stayed staring into the soft blue of the sky, watched as clouds of dark, acrid smoke choked birds and snuffed out trees.

But then she heard his roar, felt it as the stones beside her jittered in panic. It finally released her.

She was free. Free to run and hide, heart racing, cheeks wet and stinging. Free to stumble up the winding stairs like a beaten dog. She did not know where she ran, did not remember. She just tore through the flames and crumbling towers, leaped over charred bodies and melted livestock. She barely escaped, somehow. But she could not forget the dragon's penetrating stare, or the sense that she had not survived from luck alone.

And she had not questioned it then, the proper roles of predator and prey. She was weak while he was strong. She was small, but his ebony wings separated earth from sky, desperate mortals from their gods. It did not matter; the world had been abandoned to Alduin long ago. Not even they could end the end of days, despite the petty attempts to buy time.

She had known then, in Helgen's falling tower, that she had been spared. Shown mercy, though she knew not the reasons. After all, he was dragon. She was merely human.

But not anymore.


	4. Damp

Hopefully my plot hasn't expanded too much, and forgive long descriptions. She won't be out for a while, so I had to explain all the surroundings now. I know everything is pretty heavy and broad at the moment, but the action is coming. There's a War to be had, after all. And not just on a battlefield.

This might be on an even greater hiatus as I attempt to write a story for Django Unchained. We'll see.

* * *

><p><strong>Damp<strong>

_You referred to the way of the sword as hope,  
>Despite the blade in your back.<br>Two days pass and there is still no sign of the sun,  
>But you wait calmly playing checkers with your gut instinct.<em>

* * *

><p>The city was in Eastmarch. They had passed Kynesgrove after descending out of the mountains. She had hoped the frail-looking Draugr would be rushed away in the raging waters of a wide river, but they stood strong, the thin muscles flexing and straining as easily as her own. Kynesgrove had been nothing more than the ashen remains of the settlement, but she had seen Sahloknir's grave as they trudged further east.<p>

That dragon had been her first real kill, the first time she'd taken one down with the knowledge of _why_, truly why; not just because some Whiterun guards were scared. There was something different about running into battle with understanding, with a reason that seemed to glorify the act.

Absorbing Alduin's soul would be her greatest and most sung conquest.

"Ah, that's enough self-pity, Zaam." She hears the green dragon land a little ways off, almost toppling a treasure-filled wagon over. The Draugr had dug out many of the ruins, recollecting offerings left for the already-gone Dragon Priests. The Dragon Cult, she surmised, was returning.

She faces the Blood Dragon, expects him to be staring at her with just as much arrogance and distaste as Alduin always has. But his eyes are looking forward, gazing at the horizon with a reverence she certainly doesn't share. "You're here," he mutters, jealous, and then he is gone, flying back towards the burned village.

She glares down the kingdom before her, bites into her gag as the iron portcullis is drawn. High stone walls like Riften, but the rock is black and shiny, like metal. Huge, dark constructs claw into a sky grey with ash and the silhouettes of dragons. Curved slabs etched with verses in the Dov language, carved with pictures of fallen men and mer. Red flags fly, tan tapestries hang, with the carefully painted markings she has come to know from watching Paarthurnax's claws in the snow. She's tempted to read them, but she knows what they say, and doesn't need any more anger. She'll just grow rash and stupid.

This city is rising, built on the backs of mortal slaves no doubt. The dragons stay suspended in the air, or oddly perched on the tall towers, carry nothing though their strength is certainly scores more than the men and women and Draugr forced to drag carts up the hobbled streets. Lazy beasts.

There are actual buildings inside, mead halls and temples and inns. She wonders why these even exist as she watches hordes of humans, elves, Orcs, even those of the beast races, scatter into the buildings as she approaches. She hears their desperate whispers, watches as they murmur amongst themselves. _The_ _Dragonborn!_ and _Our hero returns!_ and _Look, we're abandoned._

Then she sees a man, rather handsome with dragging robes, step confidently through the crowd. His smooth skin and dark hair are adorned with gold jewelry; his coattails are followed by a score of lesser mages and scribes. He sneers when he sees her marching up the path, flanked by Alduin's hunting party, chest firmly thrust out. How dare some rich puppet stare at her so? The man tilts his staff toward her gut with an air of superiority, but he holds steady, eyes tinted with fear despite his calm demeanor. She wonders if its fear of her or his dragon overlords.

The servants and guards around him look expectantly at their master. The Dragonborn is still as her eyes burn into the man's, daring him with a smirk on her lips. _Come at me, puppet,_ she challenges silently. _Come fire your petty spells and send your sniveling protectors after me._ When a Draugr behind her gives her a hard push, one she wishes to reward with a violent kick, she stumbles forward. The man merely smiles then, the fear vanishing as she is humiliated before him, her rope bonds exposed slicing into her wrists. With a rustle of his expensive robes, something falls into his hands. He raises the item carefully, with purpose, and she glares in disbelief as he whisks into an ornate temple.

A Dragon Priest mask. So the Cult is recruiting. Good, she thinks as they continue deeper into the kingdom's bowels. Gods know they're going to need the help.

The city is in huge sections, much like Whiterun, though she knows this kingdom covers most of northern Eastmarch. The first section is a sort of shopping center and religious place, if one worships dragons. The second is darker, and less built, full of slums and still coated in mud. Orphanages and slave quarters dot the cobble road they follow. The third is again prosperous, the houses lined with metal fences and guard posts, a few unidentifiable buildings entered only by powerful looking people.

In the heart of the kingdom is an imposing, sturdy Keep complete with watchtowers and spiked outer walls that seem to run for miles. These give way to an open courtyard lined with statues of animals and, further along the path, dragons. But beyond the clearing she sees stone stairs rise and level out to a palace that curves hundreds of feet into the sky. This is certainly the tallest point in the whole city, almost as high as a small mountain. She can tell why when a dragon lands at the mouth of the stairs and waits for the wooden door to creak slowly open so that he may step inside.

A Keep monstrous enough for those monsters! How long was she lost in Sovngarde?

"Drem Yol Lok, Dovahkiin. Komeyt ek!" The voice roars from above her. She feels a Draugr untie the clothe bound around her head, but she does nothing though it should make her ecstatic. She is looking pointedly at the figure atop the stairs, clad in gold scales and maroon robes. Another Dragon Priest, but this one she recognizes, his arched golden staff, the skeletal hands that creep from his sleeves.

"Krosis," she greets as the gag is pulled from her teeth. She is careful to clip the taunting on her tongue. She will control herself until all the rage, humiliation and, dare she admit it, _fear _from her defeat and capture and parade through the kingdom, until all of her overwhelming emotions die down and leave her level-headed like she needs to be.

"Zu'u Junsehet," he answers coolly, sweeping his fire staff in a large arch. When she nods, albeit confusedly, he tilts his head almost apologetically. "You do not know much of our language. I am King of this place, the new Bromjunaar."

"Ah, you rebuild your old capital. But not in Labyrinthian I see?" Her voice is hoarse from so many days of bitter silence, and though she despise the man she speaks with, she cannot help but relish the chance to converse. And, if she maintains her composure, perhaps she can gain some information of this cursed place.

He ignores her.

She is pushed to ascend the stairs, a Draugr recollecting the rope lead on her wrists when she trudges forward. She rolls her eyes but carries on obediently as Krosis turns from her, waving his hand as he beckons them up the stairs. She turns to scan the environment and sees several followers fall back, pushing carts through the courtyard, some walking back towards the outer walls.

They walk into the castle, a rather dark but ornate place with statues and tapestries and normal wooden furniture. The Great Hall is here at the forefront, the corners running up to curve into a huge arched ceiling. The back wall is littered with large doorways and pathways though, and she thinks the whole building looks like an eerie mix of Nordic and Dwemer ruins. She sees the right side of the Great Hall looks like Alduin's Wall, and a few of the hallways resemble those in High Hrothgar.

"Come forward," Krosis calls from before her and the rope lead is dropped. "Leave," he says, his voice deep behind the stone mask. The remaining servants obey. She walks to his side, keeping a slow pace just to spite him. She rubs her hands together in their rope bonds to try and cure the itch she has to bury a dagger in his sunken flesh.

He continues in silence and she can't help but run her eyes along everything. There are no doors here, just open thresholds and hanging tapestries. It would take a strong FUS to open any doors made for a dragon, and she laughs at how unnecessary and uncharacteristic such a feature would be. When she sees the grey mask turn her way, she chooses to survey the floor instead.

"Where are you taking me?"

"Do you forget your formalities?"

She snorts at his tone. "I didn't realize manners existed in a situation such as this."

"They do ever more so. You are but captured prey now, Dragonborn," she hears the warning in his voice. "A fallen hero."

In that instant, his voice reminds her so of Alduin. _Sahlo. Joor. Saviik._ Its too much and she breaks the calm. "I have not fallen!" she yells defiantly, making a dramatic sweep with her bound wrists. As if reminded, she raises them to her dry lips and attempts to tear at them with her teeth. A rabid animal.

Krosis turns, and it catches her off-guard. He grabs her forearms and his hand is ice cold, dead. She doesn't know how to react, so she just stays still, tense, when he lets go. He places the Fire Staff between her wrists, the maw of the dragon wrapped around the thick ropes. She watches as they melt away with a quiet hiss.

"Thanks," she mumbles, rubbing her aching, bleeding wrists.

He takes the lead again. "Do not thank me; I am no ally. It is Alduin who does not wish your death. Yet."

"Oh, I would love to thank him. The burden, the nightmares, the pain, and now the humiliation of being defeated, they're all great."

"Silence," his voice is laced with venom. She has forgotten herself and she bites down embarrassment, not at his response, but at her own quick loss of control. She feels like a scolded child and knows pressing buttons will only push him, and her chance of escape, of redemption, away. "Hio kos banaar naal hin viik. It is only natural, expected. Alduin will never fail. The world will fall long before he does."

Alduin may be the physical manifestation of the apocalypse, but does no one remember she has her own prophecy, her own destiny?

She trails behind him until they reach a heavy tapestry.

Krosis raises a rotten hand, and the magic that flows hits the fabric with such force that it flaps high into the air. "Go," the Dragon Priest commands, and so she steps inside, only a little uncomfortable to have him behind her.

It is a bath house.

She wants to turn and run, but Krosis is guarding the door, the hallway behind empty and the room before her containing no exits. How are they suddenly always one step ahead? She was doing so good, learning Shouts, taking down dragons, saving people. She was completely prepared when she faced Alduin on the Throat of the World, was even more so when she went to battle in Sovngarde. And then, without warning, she was defeated and captured and it was all over. Everything and everyone went to waste.

"Why are we here?" She questions slowly, quietly, but does not really want an answer.

"You are to bathe." His reply is swift, final. The red cloth has fallen behind him again, his misty robes only brush against the stone floors. Curse that damned mask, she just wants to see his face, wants to see his eyes and ask him how he can do this.

The steam wafts from the wide, shallow pools and she smells rose water. "Why? That's ridiculous!"

He remains unchanged, his form dark, mysterious. "Everyone must present to Alduin in their best form. Including you, Dovahkiin."

She scans the room, sees another small pool but no other outfits, no other curtains to hide away in. "Well, my 'best form' is covered in armor, outfitted with sharp blades, and running into war."

A pause in their exchange, so short it is nearly imperceptible, but she catches it and clings to it. "Perhaps you will return to that life, one day," Krosis replies. "If Alduin can trust you."

"I am most certainly not fighting for the enemy." In her earlier days, the days of before, she might have sung challenge in that reply. But now, now she can only reply with dispassionate honesty. At least until she has rested and recollected herself, determined her new life and the way to escape it.

"Bathe then, or you will have no enemy to face strung up before the entire kingdom."

She obeys and approaches the smaller pool. The water is so warm, so perfumed, and she wants to just sink inside, just melt away. She is caked in mud and sweat and blood. What wounds remain are no doubt in grave danger of infection. She feels dirty and broken, and the bath will renew her spirits. But when she tries to shrug off her thin leather coverings, she can't do it. Where is all her confidence, all of her bitter disregard? If she opens her mouth now, if she tries to hide behind her clothes and hands, she will just seem weak. If she doesn't, she might not ever break out of this frozen pose. She just can't do it, can't show this Dragon Priest her naked body.

"You may not watch me."

"Do not be so arrogant. Your body does not interest me," he scoffs.

She nods, only slightly comforted. _My body has 'interested' plenty of people before. Forgive me for not wanting to put on some demented show._ She doesn't say it, just removes her armor and dips below the water's surface quickly.

Krosis continues when she rises, as though she needs the emphasis.

"Hin sil los pah hio kos," and she doesn't expect it to hurt so much. She remembers when she was so much more than that, so much more than cursed blood, more than a hero. She remembers when she was a daughter, a student, an artist, a woman, a lover, a human being. Her cuts and bruises sting sharply. There is no point in retaliating yet.

The dirt and blood run away, darken the water. She sees it flow from a grid in the side of the stone whenever she dives under, raising the water line. Ingenuity, in truth a convenience, she would not expect from men and animals so obsessed with power and control.

Still, she's made it so filthy that the water only clears slightly, so she steps from the small pool, shivers in the cool air as the water drips and gathers on the stone below. She forces her arms to her side as she walks to the larger pool. Let him watch.

She tiptoes in again, feels Krosis's eyes on her but ignores it. He is only watching to be sure she poses no danger, but he should know she will not strike unprepared. But when she was…

She sighs this time, a deep ache rising from her very bones as the hot water envelopes her. She sinks down, closes her eyes and just imagines drifting away, drowning gently. She has fought for survival for far too long to give it up now, but sometimes the thought is a comforting reprieve.

She stays under for a few minutes, lets herself float though there is no a current. Krosis is silent, does not demand she hurry. Maybe Alduin is not yet here. She stands, the chill air pebbling her skin where it is exposed above the knee-deep water. She quickly scrubs her hair, removing spider webs and dirt, dips under one last time, then steps out.

The Dragon Priest is still guarding the door, and she shivers, rubs her arms. "A robe?" She can feel his gaze.

"The servants come," he replies and then is silent once more. His solemn silhouette is eerie, the way he pets gently the dragon maw of his staff is unnerving. She faces him though, weight on one leg, arms crossed beneath her breasts. She wishes she could see his eyes, challenge him more directly in this uncomfortable showdown. She wishes he will look away first, disgusted, so she can cover up without feeling weak.

But neither happens so she walks to the doorway, breaks… whatever that was. He makes no move nor noise to stop her, so she pushes up the fabric to peer out for these servants. When she sees none, she steps back, but collides against something hard. The curtain closes.

"Continue," Krosis commands. She tilts her head to look at him. She is tall for a woman, even for a Nord, but he floats above her. The mask is cast in shadows, the gold of his chest piece glints in the weak light. She sees the grey, dead muscles of his neck and shoulder flex beneath his wispy robes.

She does not continue, stays suspended in the doorway, pressed against him. He gives no push, his arms stay at his sides. She feels a shudder run up her spine, feels goose-bumps on her drying skin. This is not right, but she cannot understand why.

"Dovahkiin, listen well. Remember all I ever tell you, or Alduin will swallow you whole. I, and he, shall never repeat orders," and he doesn't. She clenches her teeth, glares, but walks out. She is certain to stride confidently down the tunnel, puts a subtle sway in her step that no doubt dances the light of hung torches across her skin. She is not some little girl, will not play these games. She hurries and is glad he is content to only follow quietly.

"O-oh!" She hears a girl's voice, high and young and scared. She turns at the pitter patter of soft feet, watches as a chestnut-haired Bosmer, no older than fourteen, rushes down the hallway. When the girl passes Krosis gliding leisurely in the shadows, she turns a deep red and averts her eyes from the naked woman. The Dragonborn feels rage swell in her, _they are taking children!,_ and quickly covers herself to spare the shy girl.

"I, I brought your robe, Dragonborn," she stares with wide doe eyes, but they do not say _Have you come to save me?_ only _Please let me go._ " I'm sorry, so sorry I was slow; I didn't m-mean to-" but the woman cuts her off with a reassuring smile.

"It's fine, I just wanted a little fresh air," she replies, taking the robe from the elf's outstretched hands. She sees how they shake, how her eyes dart. Then she sees scars peek from the dull sleeves of the child's robes, and she fights not to question her, not to grasp her hands and ask what has happened. This attention would only further frighten the girl. Friendship, even just kindness, from the Dragonborn would no doubt paint a large target on her back. "Thank you," she says gently, her smile wide, trying to comfort the Bosmer. She's a rather pretty girl, thin and short and soft-skinned. The child gives a small smile. "What's your name?"

"Be quick next time, slave," Krosis hisses from behind them, the threat unspoken but clear. His voice echoes in the hall and the girl panics, is moved to tears.

"Go on," the woman says apologetically, guiding the servant by her shoulder. The elf pulls sharply from her touch, as if struck by fire, and runs down the hall.

When the girl is out of sight, she rounds on Krosis. "You sick monsters! You enslave children, have little girls do you bidding?" She screams, spits in his face. "What, you don't have the strength in your nasty corpse to carry a robe?" She punches him hard in the chest and he actually falls back, so she continues the assault, pushes and claws and beats against him as fast as she can. She lashes out to hit him again, to rip off that filthy frowning mask, but he catches her wrist and crushes it. She howls.

"Do not raise your voice to a king," he growls from behind the mask. "We take offerings to serve. And do not, ever, question my strength, mortal." He throws her then, before she can argue, and she slams hard against the stone wall, grows dizzy when her head bangs against it. A torch is shook from its metal cup and tumbles away, the fire dying as it rolls.

She's dazed. She moans and touches the back of her skull. No blood. Somehow that angers her ever more and she crouches as he approaches, gathers herself for a fight. But she hears the clang of a staff beating against the ground.

Krosis bends, his robes rustling, and he grasps her chin and cheeks between fleshless fingers and the bones bruise her as he squeezes. He flicks his wrist, throws her head to the side, just to hint that he can and will snap her neck. She raises her gaze to glare into the slants of his mask.

"Let. Go." Her voice is full of cold command.

He leans in, cold metal brushing her cheek. She wants to kick him.

"Where is Alduin?" She hates herself for resulting to this, but he's the only ithing/i she can think of above Krosis. This Priest may not be interested, maybe have balls so dead and shriveled he couldn't possibly find her attractive, but that does not mean he can pin her up against some wall just to show he's boss.

"Behind the mask." He whispers darkly in her ear before she can question him. His other hand gently pulls her robe, exposing her collarbone and the swell of her breasts. Unnecessary; the disdain and confusion and discomfort is already there. "Alduin sees everything he wishes. Sharing my sight, obeying, is a small price to be king, to be immortal."

She doesn't believe him, shouldn't believe him, but the mask seems much more haunting and she can _feel_ he tells the truth. She feels that scrutinizing gaze of Alduin, feels the dark resentment, the childish pride. She hears the mirthful laugh of a gambler who never had to gamble to win; that's not the laugh of a man like Krosis, a man who took all the risks, put it all on the betting table, and still left with only empty delusions.

"So you sell your soul and think that makes you stronger? Pathetic. Truly, be proud-" but he cuts off her insults before she can really do herself damage, clamps a bony hand over her mouth. She bites it, hard, feels the chewy, rotten flesh tear but it affects Krosis none.

He tilts his head curiously and a shiver creeps up her spine. She shudders and it leaves. The air grows stale and normal once more. Krosis straightens, steps back quickly, and she knows Alduin no longer watches.

"Come, we must hurry." The Priest's voice is still cold and complacent, but she hears the tint of urgency as he picks up his staff and whisks away.

"I have no interest," she begins, spitting out that acrid taste of corpse on the ground.

He doesn't reply, just continues on his path_. I will not repeat myself._ She tightens her robe and stomps after him. Look, she thinks bitterly, I'm already learning.

"Could you slow down a little?" She calls, not wanting to run up to him like a puppy.

He pauses long enough for her to cross the hall, then begins moving again. She doesn't bother saying thanks this time. He doesn't deserve it.

Still, for all her stubbornness and headstrong pride, she knows to be careful, tedious. She may be prone to emotions and action, but over the years as Dragonborn, she has learned some self-control. She is now a planner. She will never again run off unprepared, not like when she stumbled out of Cyrodiil just to fuck herself over. She knows better than to turn and sprint down the hallway, will just get caught or lost. She knows better than to argue or question about the servants this soon. She will not so much as mention a child until she is certain it will be safe and protected. Though she wants to yell and fight and run, she will follow obediently, plotting where they cannot reach her.

But, if they wish to play games of words and wit, she will join them. A few lashings for riling up Alduin doesn't seem so bad, as long as she doesn't get herself killed. What good is she to Paarthurnax then?

It is a long way to Alduin. She stays quiet mostly, but bites at her nails. She spits them out of the side of her mouth, and a few might accidentally just happen to land on her _guardian's_ robes. He doesn't even bother to brush them off. She sighs. He bristles at the noise and she smiles softly to see his subtle irritation. But then he continues on and her attempts at humor die away as contemplation overtakes her.

Ah, Krosis, how fit that he is the ruling Priest of the newly resurrected Bromjunaar. She knows Volsung and Vokun still live, yet she is placed under Pity, not Shadow or Horror. Perhaps this is some play, meant to remind her of that so-mentioned _mercy_ Alduin has bestowed her. She seethes silently as the Dragon Priest leads her towards the inner sanctum. They will soon regret this pity.


	5. Deafen

**So, another extremely late chapter. My apologies. I hit a bit of a writer's block, as introducing Alduin and explaining some of what I'm wanting to do, is probably the most important part of the first half of the story. I also have to deal with college, living abroad this summer, getting my first job, etcetc. And this lead me to neglect my story, and sadly, my dear readers. I want to thank all of you who have managed to stay and say hello to any new passersby. I realize Skyrim is no longer a fresh force, and therefore many have left, so a special thank you to those returning. I did get support (my wonderful reviewers, favoriters, watchers, etc) and that was what drove me to continue on this story. An email every few weeks keeps this story on my mind and helped me to move forward in it. So thank you. I hope it can turn out to be what you are looking for! Plot has expanded again, I actually strategized out the entire war, I've come to terms with a decent enough ending for what I'm going for, and I've written out several future chapters. As I said, just had to get through this difficult one and accept it for what I could make it.**

* * *

><p><strong>Deafen<strong>

_Talking to God,_

_Hearing what he wants._

_He moves in violence._

_I stand in silence._

* * *

><p>Suddenly, there was sunlight.<p>

The dark halls wound for what seemed like miles, Krosis's wispy trail like the guiding lamp of a thieves' caravan, reflecting and intensifying the hanging torches' glow. They had taken the remainder of the path in silence, the Dragonborn showing little interest, even as awed servants snuck past or red-bannered doorways tried to call her eyes. She stepped softly, but deliberately, head raised and hips swaying. She would not be seen as a prisoner. She would accept her current station of follower, but she would make sure her form was strong and controlled.

For beneath the steady stone gaze, the heavy set of her jaw, was a race of thoughts and feelings. Though one might support or encourage the last, there was always next a contrasting view, an opposing emotion. When she felt adrenaline build, her courage rising, a plan set: kill Krosis, save the slave girl, follow back the hallways she had perfectly mapped in her mind. Then she would realize the slave girl was only one of a thousand servants, all in unknown places and of unknown worth to Alduin. The hours she had focused on each footstep would lead her only to the bathing area, the way before clouded by her previous anger and confusion and vulnerability. Attacking Krosis, though she had no interest in admitting it, would not be done as easily as taking down a rogue dragon or band of Draugr. Especially without weapons, without Marcurio, without the certainty that, even though she was free of the cursed cloth, on her breath still rode the Thu'um. This was no time for risk taking, no time for foolishness. Not in the realm of Alduin.

The darkness had kept her mind busy, her focus inward, but the rays of light at the end of the corridor brought with them comfort. Though Krosis's tattered form was silhouetted by the brightness, so too was her own body; her skin warmed, her eyes relieved. Like a caged bird set by a window to finally see the sky, the Dragonborn could feel the hope rising within her. She knew the bars snared her, the window's glass imprisoned her, but there was a place outside of this, and it was still as free and light and peaceful as it had been each time she rode through the forests of Falkreath, swam within the White River, or caught snowflakes under Paarthurnax's watchful eye.

She breathed deeply the fresh mountain air blowing south. She imagined the leaves, red from the oncoming Heartfire, dancing upon this wind. But then too could she see the ashes of Kynesgrove swirling, and so she turned the thoughts from her mind.

She shielded her eyes as she stepped into the sanctum, the stone hot under her bare feet. She could feel Krosis gliding away to float against a far wall, when she heard it.

The scrape of claws on rock, the furling of wings, the groan of a hot breath from lungs as large as her body. Her teeth clenched, her heart thrumming wildly in her chest, as that disgusting, terrifying voice slithered from hundreds of feet overhead.

"Drem yol lok, Dovahkiin. Aal hin Sil diin." She scoffed at Alduin's suggestion, feeling no more relaxed, and raised her head to find his black, scaly hide. Her hands cupped over her brow to block the far-too-bright sun as she gazed up. The floor of this sanctum was circular, the walls elegantly arched and pillared for many halls. The geometry of it perfect, even beautiful. The sharp angles and thick points reminded her of the World Eater.

There was no roof. This pattern continued skyward, like a great coliseum, balconies stretching out from the walls for several floors until those walls became nothing more than slabs of tiny stones. Statues of Dov and fallen men lined the top of the opening, and red flags flew from thick black posts. These too were of such great size and strength, that young dragons could perch atop them, faceless voyeurs of the upcoming exchange. Before her, however, cutting through all the delicately curved walls, was a flight of wide, harsh stairs, narrowing as they rose higher, the attachments of each stories' balconies instead widening as the steps were set farther and farther back into the stone. The highest most step lead to a large landing, and atop this stood Alduin.

No wonder so many men and mer were set to work, so many prisoners carrying stone and metal from other conquered areas. To set up such a construct in the few months preceding her capture was miraculous. She wondered how many had choked the harsh, soot-saturated air, crushed under the falling rock and tar and wood, withered from the eventual breakdown of their overworked, starved, sleepless bodies. She wondered how many Krosis had watched fall only to command a Draugr to beat them or drag them away. Though it should be expected, for no known reason this caused a hot resentment to burn in her chest, like she was a friend wronged.

The Dragon King stands casually, his wings kept tight to his sides, his body balanced gently upon bent legs. His neck is stretched haughtily, his orange eyes, piercing hers, are set on fire, yet these are the only hints to his power. She glares. How dare he take this harmless stance, no tension in his shape, his wings not spread to show his size? By not boasting of his strength, he mocks her weakness. And it shakes her to the core.

"Jun," she mutters bitterly, knowing that even from this distance his keen ears can take in her voice.

"Krosis, rek los mindok." Though he seems to praise her knowledge of their tongue, the egotistical chuckle that follows as he addresses the Dragon Priest, not her, makes obvious he is not proud nor even surprised.

"Hio lost nol Zeymahi gahrot Zul," he continues, and she tightens her stance as he mentions Paarthurnax. How dare he call them brothers, how dare he speak to her as though he knows the gentle savior at all. She has spent a year among the monks of Hrothgar, a year practicing her shouts from the Throat of the World, a year taking in the old dragon's wisdom and friendship. Alduin knows nothing.

She snorts and tightens the thin dress as she feels his eyes run the length of her body. She feels that prickling awareness at the back of her neck, just as she had at the bath house. Yet she knows not what it means, eliciting a cold sweat as though she has seen a ghost and a strong shiver as though she has felt the touch of a lover. Yet neither are what she feels, neither explain his looks, devoid of threat and lust. She shouts, "Rok los niid Zeymah se hini!"

"Los rok hini? Briinah?"

She shudders in disgust and begins stepping forward, Krosis's warning gaze no longer holding her obediently still. He turns to face some Draugr guards, gesturing for them to block the hall behind her, as if she has any interest in it now.

"Fron? No. Not you and I, Alduin. Nor, I think, you and any other," she gestures to those surrounding her on the floor, and her palms sweep over the dragons landing above.

He smirks, she can feel it as his wings unfurl, their black expanse darkening the entire open sky. His teeth bare, white but the edges stained with blood. He steps forward too, down 2 rows, his broad tail swinging behind him. He senses the challenge from her, and begins the descent to meet it.

"I was enjoying our exchange, my dear Dragonborn. But how could I expect a worthless mortal to maintain the tongue of a race so higher and greater than you? Come, I shall use your clumsy, harsh language, if only for your benefit."

The taunting is there again, lacing what was once such an empty, hateful tone.

She waits at the foot of the stairs, hands at her hips, wishing her mace and dagger were slung there, if for nothing else but to stroke the sharp edges and restore some stability in her mind. As the distance closed, the tension strengthed, that strange sensation sending chills over her skin, but she kept her eyes locked on Alduin's. He has slowed his descent, flexing his claws over the rough stone, grinding into it as though he were scratching at a soft canvas. He seems unaware of the force between them, but the glitter in his eyes makes her wonder if he can feel it, if he could even understand it. It is different from Helgen. Then there was fear and hatred and recognition of her greatest foe, but also confusion of her sparing savior. Now there is something else, something deeper and more foreign, but also unexplainable. It is neither bad nor good. It simply is.

"My thanks. Now, can you tell why exactly I am here? Alive, no doubt. You seem to have sincere difficulty with killing me. Are you really so afraid to lose your foe, to lose that attention of facing the great Dragonborn, or are you actually just incapable of doing a job right?"

"You could not hope to understand the reasons I have spared you, little one," his tongue flickers to trace the rough skin of his maw, "But you know that I have done it with a purpose. You are now, as you have always been, at my mercy. You are blessed to have it granted to you."

She smiles, so sweet and fake that not even an expressionless beast such as he could misinterpret it. And the Draugr may not notice, the Dov audience may not catch it, even Krosis may not see it. But she can see the dark blue around his pupils grow, the bright contrast of fire and ice reminiscent of a blazing, apocalyptic comet in the moonless sky. She will get a rise of him yet.

"You are so kind to me, Alduin. Surely, though, the most fearsome kitty cat around."

"Your pathetic joking undoes you, Dragonborn. Such is unfit for a true warrior, and even worse that your humor brings no warm response. Perhaps if you had learned better the sword than the word, you would not be in this predicament. But, fear not, you do amuse me. The way your body now trembles is enticing. A good show before my meal."

She straightens her spine and balls her fists, stopping the small tremors of her muscles. Alduin knows she does not shake in fear or immature anger, but rather from this field between them, and her desire to slash through it and into his dripping heart.

"Apologies. You have brought me here for a reason, World Earter," she responds coolly, no more need for petty jokes or screaming shows of strength. "I would like that you reveal it."

"What else am I to do with a pet?" The last word booms throughout the sanctum, echoing back with as much malice and mocking as when it first left his despicable jaw.

She steps further, the stairs so tall she must bend and balance on her bent knee just to lift herself up. Krosis appears beside her, floating up to the dragon's side in mere seconds. She is unamused.

"Stay down, Dragonborn," Krosis warns, but she takes the next step.

"I am _no one's_ pet. You cannot leash me!" She defies, trudging up to a stair only a few yards from the jagged, thorned head of Alduin. "I am here only because you sent a hundred undead to gather me, alone and unconscious, as you fled to here. Even so, without the Priest's subduing magics, you would not have caught me so easily. Even with them, you could not have taken me, still broken from our battle as you were tended to and spoiled, without all one hundred warriors, and certainly could not have kept me without sending reinforcements when I cut your ranks down to forty. You may make yourself unthreatened, even uninterested, but you will take me as seriously in speech as you have taken me in battle. If you do not, you only make light of yourself."

Alduin's wings come forward, resting on the stone beside her body. She can remember him crumbling the tower of Helgen, slicing apart the sky of Sovngarde; she can feel the warmth of the blood rushing beneath his hide as his scales brushes over her bare arm. But though the threat is there, that he can imprison her with only his body, it is much subdued. She feels no horror facing him now. As she faced the true, unavoidable end of her life, she felt the terror, the rage, the self-resentment, the heartbreak. She was a failure. But she has been given a second chance, and such a mistake gives her the confidence to look into his eyes and know they are, at the very core, growing closer and closer to equal. She can still prevail.

His head tilts, the thorny spines along his neck casting long, twisting shadows like the shaky, naked tree limbs that had become monsters on the walls of her childhood cottage, trying to strangle and rip apart that terrified little Cyrodiillian girl. Even in a land apart, in an age apart, under a new name, she cannot escape her demons.

Krosis's staff thuds heavily against the ground, calling her attention.

"I do not question your strength, your capabilities, your talents. But you are a mere mortal, only decades old, with inexperience and a lack of understanding you cannot even comprehend as missing. You are without wisdom, and you are defeated."

The coolness, the steadiness, fills his voice once more. It is empty and emotionless. It is draconic. She releases a deep breath, having been unaware of ever holding it in. The field between them falls, the tension dies, the electricity leaves her body a final time. A blush falls over her skin and melts away. She crosses her arms beneath her breasts to hide the forming goose-bumps. Her very soul is stilling when she had not known it was rushing within her.

"You suffer the same fate, Alduin." She sees Krosis clutch the golden dragon head. She is calmly disobeying, refusing to refer to this monster as anything but an equal. But Alduin pays no heed, unaffected by such small rebellions. "For you can never grasp mortality. Dragonrend brings you to your knees."

He retracts his great wings, turning to return to the stair's landing. His back faces her, displaying his disinterest. And she knows she can take no advantage of it, though she flexes her fingers, itching to attack him before his own demented audience. She cannot call forth the very Shout she refers to, and as a dryness clutches her throat, she is not sure she will again.

He exhales through his snout, the sound reminiscent of the tsking of a mother. "It is no loss." He turns again to face her, lowering until he is lying on his belly. Krosis stands apart, gives his master room to spread his wings. They fold gently at his side, and she gets the strange desire to pet the leathery tapestry, to run it between her finger and thumb and watch as the sun tries to shine through the darkness. "Why should I wish to understand such imperfection? Do you hope, Dovahkiin, to perceive the thoughts of a fly, even as you _allow_ it to spend the last of its days?"

She scoffs, growing more irritated with the haughty lizard. "I am no pest, Alduin. I am not small nor weak nor foolish nor simple. I do not live on your mercy," she replies with certainty, leaning on one leg with eyebrows raised.

"But you live from it, Briinah," he yawns, but she knows from his fierce eyes that he is not doing so from a want to rest. "I have given you this second chance to alert your pathetic world," he sways his massive head from side to side, referencing the horizon, "that it has none. You are here to prove the battle is over, the prophecy fulfilled, the fate decided." A mirth again enters the thrum of his throat. It is malevolent. "Your severed head would serve as well, would it not make you a martyr, a hero to be sung of, when you deserve no such praise."

She is sick of defending her own worth, realizing that he may act as though she is of little consequence, but by bothering to 'spare' her, he is in fact showing how important she is. Instead, she focuses on him. She cannot rise through the ranks in his eyes, but she can certainly knock him down them. "Yet, Bane of Kings, you do not follow through. You wait. You toy. You turn your back to Akatosh, forsake the very hand that feeds you, that gave you breath? To amuse yourself as a lazy, false king. You speak of my arrogance, but it is yours that will undo you."

"And have you followed your destiny? You have faced me, fought me, and fallen to me. Akatosh has given me a new path, has rewarded my success and provided me the rights of First Born."

"I am alive. It is not complete. Perhaps you are merely unable—" but he rises again, falling onto his haunches, wings open and catching the sensual brush of the wind.

"You are mine." Draugr shuffle in the background, uncomfortable from the intensity of his loud voice. A few of the Dov spread their wings and flee, while others merely lean forward to catch more of their conversation.

She clutches her fists and begins to ascend the stairs with haste. Her heels dig into the ground in anger and this propels each of her steps, lifting her over the rough stone. The scraps of her feet and knees tear as they collide with the rock, but the light burn does not make her falter. She has taken much worse. She flexes her wrist and the thick, white scar crinkles. "I am no one's," she seethes, growing closer. "You may bind and beat and banish me. You may break my body, you may even destroy my mind. But you cannot touch my soul, a soul the same as yours, granted only to destroy you, the son who has turned upon his father." She reaches the spacious landing and her hair flies wildly as the dragon beats his wings above her. His head tilts back, and she can see him as he was in Sovngarde, neck bent to swallow the corpses of her men. She wants to leap and force a dagger through his beating heart, but his gaze traps hers and she can only shake her head in pity. "You have not forsaken him, Alduin. He has forsaken you."

His wings carry him into the sky, hovering over her small frame. She is completely clad in shadow. "And yet he has given you to me. Perhaps your grand creation is only to be mine. Your purpose only to serve me. Your worth as I deem it. You see, as mine, you prove not only that I cannot be conquered, but that I am the ruler, the king, the harbinger of a doom your fellow mortals quake at. You show that I will have my destiny, but I will make it my own. This world I burn, it shall be_ my_ world. This enemy I trample, she shall be _my_ enemy. All shall be made and destroyed in my image." Her teeth grate at his audacity, but she says nothing in response. She turns to walk back down the stairs, the conversation clearly over. But Krosis's staff beats hard against her chest, knocking the wind from her lungs, and holds her still at the mouth of the stairs. She grasps the twisted head of it in her hands, ready to thrust it away, but she feels that sensation again, the tingling of her flesh, the wildness of her soul, as the Dragon Priest glares from behind his thick mask. It is so much stronger, so intense, that she shakes. She knows it is not Krosis's doing. Although he is so distant, she feels Alduin touching her. It is deep and intimate and revolting.

"I will not devour an imperfect world. Krosis, take her away. You would be wise to follow his every whim, Kulaas. He is your king." She hears the heavy flapping of the World Eater's flight. The staff falls from against her ribs, and air rushes into her chest. The… familiarity immediately fades, and she has the strong urge to return to the baths.

Even so, with back turned and chin raised, the Dragonborn taunts, "Of course, Jun."

The shadow falls over her again, choking out all light. Even the gold of the Dragon Priest's staff offers no reflection. She watches as Alduin instead flies westward, effortlessly crossing the expanse she knows will take hours of winding tunnels to navigate. She does not see as his foul maw opens, nor does she know how the blue slit of his eyes cut into the brilliant red-orange, but she breathes his final words on the wind.

They deafen her.

"I am your God."

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><p>Edit: Thanks to Delgodess I realized I didn't put the translations in! I'm going to start working the the Dragon Language pretty extensively, so I can no longer rely on Alduin's or Paarthurnax's in-game quotes.<p>

Since I did them myself, I probably did them incorrectly, so feel free to check here. I capitalize nouns. Words ending in 'i' are turned possessive, as in 'My _'. Plural words will repeat the last letter of their singular form, and then tack on an 'e' as well. These are just little grammar rules in case they help you decipher phrases without the use of my footnotes here. As you can see with the second translation, I take a lot of liberty here! :)

Drem Yol Lok. - A greeting.

Aal hin Sil diin. – May your Soul freeze. (as in 'Calm down.')

Jun. – King.

Krosis, Rek los mindok. – She is knowable.

Hio lost nol Zeymahi gahrot Zul. – You have from my Brother stolen Voice. (You have learned to speak the language from my brother.)

Rok los niid Zeymah se hini! – He is no Brother of yours!

Los rek hini? Briinah? – Is he yours? Sister?

Fron? – Kin?

Kulaas. - Princess


	6. Defile

**Extremely short, I'm sorry! Next chapter won't be for a while as well, but hopefully not too long.**

**This chapter is dark, and it comes with a big trigger warning. So I'm posting the rest on the Kink Meme only. You can skip that bit without losing much, as I think the foreshadowing is enough to lead you to the proper conclusion, and this will continue as a theme to define their relationship and therefore be hinted to enough for you to get the idea later as well. Anyways, thanks and enjoy!**

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><p><strong>Defile<strong>

_Illusion never changed  
>Into something real.<br>I'm wide awake and I can see  
>The perfect sky is torn.<em>

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><p>She awakes from Sovngarde, coughing as she rolls on her broken ribs. Her head buzzes, and she cradles it in her trembling hands. The world is dark, but she cannot tell if it is due to night or loss of sight. She does not hear Alduin, and so she relaxes, waiting on reality to catch up to her fractured mind.<p>

Her fingers weave through her tresses, but they comb easily, as if freshly washed, not matted with dirt and sweat and blood. She checks her scalp for wounds, perhaps from the rock she fell upon, the tree she crashed into, the edge of Alduin's talons. But there are none, no blood, not even the dimpled flesh of a scar. She realizes then that she is breathing easily as well. Her ribs do not crackle. Her muscles do not ache. She rises, confused, and the lack of protest in her legs worries her. Her wrist bends.

She calls fire to her palm-a weak spell-and holds her fingers near her face. She can feel the heat, but cannot see the light. Even temporary blindness would provide a flash of whiteness, yes? Is her vision completely gone?

She stumbles, but the ground is smooth beneath her. As her bare feet guide her, she feels only a soft slickness, like polished stone. There is not dirt, no little rocks or blades of grass to tickle her ankles.

She is scared now, lost. Her state cannot be processed. This world cannot be mapped in her mind. She cannot see. There are no particular scents to guide her. She screams, or so she believes, because the cry never echoes back to her. She is deafened. And so she runs.

She does not know how long she runs, nor how far. She does not even know when she stops, but suddenly there is a bright light that swarms her vision. A high-pitched roar grows and dies in her ear. She smells water. Her eyes blink and something takes shape in the distance. The source of the light. She approaches, cautiously, and trudges despite feeling no heaviness in her limbs. As she grows nearer, the pure, white light, unlike even the strongest ray of sunshine through a cloudless sky on the top of the Throat of the World, splits.

It is a rectangular hole, empty, a house high, a river wide. Fanning out from behind the perfect shape is the light, reaching to encompass as far as she can see in nothing but total whiteness. Even her skin is illuminated, a dark shadow cast below her. She turns to face the world behind and surely there is nothing but darkness, though she cannot even tell where the white and black meet. They just… merge suddenly and without warning. No line of grey. She turns to the gap in the light and approaches. Perhaps this is the gate to eternity?

But when she goes to step through, she is met with coldness. The white light reaches into the gap. A smooth, silver barrier blocks her way. Her palms run over the surface, and her fingerprints stain the purity. Curious, she presses harder against the metallic wall, until her knuckles bleach and her fingers blush. Slowly, something appears. A line traces the curve of her hand, and stretches down to follow her wrist, her arm. But as she leans down to examine, she watches as her form appears, her reflection growing as if from her touch. She gasps and steps away, but the reflection continues to manifest, slowly, her arms and shoulders, her thin throat, piece together. She is at once horrified and intrigued as her naked form appears opposite her. And although it is an exact and perfect replica, it is no mirror image, for the eyes of her reflected self are still closed. Her heart explodes within her, a sudden, terrified beating. Something is wrong. She pants, desperation choking her. Her shaking hands find her face, and dig into the flesh below her eyes, pulling down down down. The reflection does not move, but slowly the lids part and its eyes open…

They are golden, dark blue rays bursting from the horrendously large pupil. She shudders, steps back from her reflection but cannot look away. Her brain screams, "Go, move, stop." Her legs try to spin and take off. Her fingers itch to cover her eyes, but she cannot look away. Escape is not so easy.

Her reflection remains emotionless, does not represent the fear and confusion of her expression, the bumps across her shuddering skin, the tightness of her throat.

A darkness sprouts from its head, and she wants to turn and face whatever shadow is behind her, casting that reflection. But she can hear nothing, and her body does not have the acute awareness of another presence as it has been trained to find from battle and betrayals.

The shadow grows, on either side of the expressionless face, curling up, twin spires protruding from its skull. And she can see now, that they are horns.

A horizon appears in the mirror, dark and thick. It grows, spreads, like ink dripping from the hard pressed 'good bye' of a last letter. Wings morph and hang limp on the reflection.

She reaches up, impossibly slow, terrified to feel the cold, splintered horns. Her fingers shake, crawl over her skull. And she feels nothing.

She clutches at her back, frantically feeling her shoulder blades. But there are no wings.

Tears flow and the reflection seems to summon her, call to her. She tries to resist, bitterly refuses, nails dig into her thighs as she tries to hold herself still. But the reflection, silent and immobile, demands her. She steps, heavy, anxious footfalls on the smooth black ground. Her hand raises, on its own accord, and traces the grey surface, the only thing separating her and the fucked up vision in her mind.

Her chest rises and falls with every shaky breath, her eyes dart around the empty world. For an eternity, nothing happens.

But then the reflection smiles, slow and delicate, just the softest curl to the corner of its mouth. And then the pink lips spread, the teeth bare, the smile gapes and splits and her own lips tremble, as if understanding the pain. Blood pours down its chin and pools in the hollow of its collarbone.

The reflection's head tilts, curiously, yet all knowing, and its hand rises.

Until their fingers touch.

And suddenly silence is gone. Her scream rips through the void. Her body erupts in a fiery inferno. She can smell the acrid stench of her own fear and pain as her skin dries and cracks and hardens into midnight blue scales. They fly up her arm, her flesh slicing open to accommodate the sharp, ragged protrusions. The reflection laughs and the mirror drops to the ground, melts away into the floor and disappears.

She turns to flee, screaming, convulsing, bile in her throat.

But all the terror in the world cannot push her as she stops dead in her tracks.

Alduin is there. Stony, solid, shadowed. Huge. Cold. Despising.

His wings unfurl, his nails scrape into the perfect, slick floor. His maw opens, and she can see the thick saliva drip from his fangs. He lunges without warning and she screams, turning away but he swallows her whole. His tongue, rough like a cat's, curls around her form. His teeth graze her skull and extremities as he closes his jaw around her and flings his head back, the throat wide open as she falls into him. She is tumbling, sliding down the thick corded muscles of his esophagus until she can smell the acid of his stomach, and her tears and nose and ears burn. She is devoured by the darkness and prepares for the melting and singing of her flesh but instead a dagger appears in her hand and she doesn't even think she just stabs and stabs and stabs and the blade slices through his muscle and veins and catches in his bones. He shatters into millions of razor pieces and as she falls she can see her reflection, fractured and laughing, pass her by.

She lands, but not on the unforgiving ground. Strong, warm arms wrap under her knees and neck, lifting her.

The man cradles her to his chest and she looks up immediately, confused and scared and oh so grateful. His face is pale (like slate) blue-veined, and perfectly smooth. Lips thin and stern. Nose straight and sharp. Cheeks hollow. Dark, wavy hair tumbles down his shoulders. But she is transfixed on his eyes. Brilliant amber, with shards of blue. And there is something so haunting in their gaze.

Alduin, a man, holds her in his grasp with all the delicacy of a new husband, but she knows he will kill her.

She claws and kicks and strains in his grasp but it only tightens, his face stony and unaffected by her struggles. When she stills or tries to shift, he releases his hold enough for her to move, but as soon as she attempts an attack or escape he squeezes her so tight she is scared her lungs may burst. He gives her such freedom only to stifle it.

A predator toying with its next meal, Alduin is sure to show his strength at every opportunity. And that pathetic, fleeting mercy.

She stills in his mock embrace, the blood rushing in her veins. He takes the opportunity to slide his gaze over her body, and it is sick in an entirely different way. His eyes show no lust, no perverse appreciation of her form. In fact, he picks her apart, her imperfection. Her softness, her frailty, the smooth slopes. There is no strength, no geometry to her form. Her skin marred by scars and black dots. And she is so, so small. Improper. A failure. Disgusting.

And she feels anger rise. How dare he seem so passive, so disapproving? Yes his eyes still rake her form, and he cannot look away.

He passes over her naked body again, his eyes stop at her chest. He watches the way her breasts rise and fall, her nipples hard in the cold air. They are so foreign, so bizarre, but he remembers the way Krosis's mind prickled when he gazed at her in the bath house. And he is curious for the feeling once more.

She has seen this look before, directed to barmaids and pretty little things. But it is full of purer evil.

He will do so much more, so much worse than taunt her, hurt her, kill her.

He will defile her.

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><p>She suffers. She suffers and suffers and suffers until he grows tired and retreats quietly. No apology, not even a haughty remark.<p>

She gets up, wipes furiously at her thighs until the skin reddens and dies and scrapes away. Then she runs.

She runs until she is exhausted and even then she steps onward, until her knees lock and then crumble beneath her. She lies on the ground, gasping for air, muscles twitching, eyes stinging. Her legs squeeze tightly together and she doesn't relax until they burn from fatigue. Only the darkness is there to comfort her, melting over her and, she prays to whatever god will have her, giving her protection from Alduin's prying eyes.

She does not hear him in the wide, open silence. And so she curls up, and she cries.


	7. Duty

Hello, world. This has been a long time coming. My laptop broke over a year ago, but luckily I had everything backed up on a flash drive. Which I promptly lost. If you've been over at the Kink Meme, you may have known I've been searching for this drive for the whole year, with especial franticness since MarchI just found it, oh an hour ago? In a box in my sister's room. So yeah, I've made copies of the story and e-mailed them to myself. I decided if I didn't find the drive today, I'd discontinue the story, but now that I have found it I feel like I have to keep going. I still haven't written very far so there won't be any scheduled or frequent updates, but hopefully it will still interest enough people. I do have a soft spot for this story, even if it's old and slow and unfinished. My plot has expanded from a simple, dark PWP one shot purely about Alduin and the DB, into a multichapter Second Dragon War. Alduin and the DB are centric, as is their relationship, but the focus will be on the DB and her role in the war, meaning there will be a few OCs and other events that don't include Alduin. He will always return and be a dominating force as their relationship is the major point of the story. I just didn't want to write a romance this time around to practice other themes.

This chapter is background that will be needed for future chapters. Some of the nearest chapters may have some odd additions in them that are not canon. I guess nothing is postgame. You'll see what I mean when I get there, so just ride along with me and let me do the crazy things I want to do, okay? J Nothing important will change, but I'm creating some situations as plot points. Enjoy.

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><p>The gentle rocking of her sobs eventually awakens the Dragonborn. Her skin is flushed in sweat, her body trembling, a heavy coldness descends from her belly and holds her leaden limbs paralyzed to the bed. Her eyes take in the darkness of the room until she catches a dim light slipping from beneath the canopy ahead. Fear is still a thick, bubbling knot in her throat. She knows she should get up, sprint across the stone and into the hallway, into the safe brightness. But her thudding heart has no such will, and so she rolls over, tears drying as she stares blankly. She feels empty, ruined, hopeless, and alone. What point is there to hide from shadows? They may have this worthless husk.<p>

She lies like this for many hours, the imagined brush of Alduin's grimy hands ensures a clammy feeling on her skin, but her heart calms and her muscles relax. Her eyes close and she must constantly fight back flashes. _His lips trace her shoulders. His nails lightly scratch. He fucks her._

She whimpers and winces at how pathetic she truly sounds.

It is another few hours before she has relived the nightmare so many times the visions fade away, unable to insight the terror and suffering. She breathes deeply, steady, burrowed under the thin blanket. She whispers to herself quietly, "Think of Paarthurnax. Think of your friends in Whiterun," and their soft images bring some meager peace. She chides herself, "It was only a dream. If you get this worked up over make believe frights, how can you ever hope to face the real monster?" The logic appeals to her recovering mind and she shakes away the last of the scaly shadows stalking around her bed. She finally falls asleep, and does not rise for two days.

When she does wake up, the Dragonborn can smell cinnamon and egg. Her stomach growls before she can even roll over or open her eyes. She is starving. The sweet scents waft through the room, calling her attention until she jolts from the covers and looks desperately around. The small servant boy drops the tray at the foot of her bed and scurries away before she can even finish her "Thank you." She brushed it off just as she did with the elf. It is not their fault she has fallen so low.

She gulps the small glass of warm milk and gathers the steaming bread knots, carries them to her bedside chest, munching away and stretching in the light from the clothed doorway. The meal is invigorating. As she eats, the breakfast flavors take away the bitter taste of Alduin's tongue. As she hums, the comforting song takes away the sound of his labored groans. As she rocks back and forth, the brush of the blankets take away the grasping of his clawed hands. As she sits and waits and pushes down the nightmare's last stand against her sanity, she relaxes and then hardens, pulling herself tightly inside where he cannot reach her.

Today, she declares, will be a better one.

When she's finished off the eggs and bread, she gently stacks her dishes. Unsure of where to leave them, she walks outside the dim room and places them by the entry way. Perhaps this may make some poor servant's day easier. They do not seem to appreciate her presence. The thought makes her sigh. It is a strange thing indeed to no longer cause cheering and hope in the streets, but to incite fear and disappointment. It is no matter, she has earned the disgrace, but she will earn their love again. She will defeat the disillusioned, arrogant animal that dares to call himself a king.

She strides down the hallways absentmindedly, content to just have woken up alone and unbothered. She still mumbles old tunes, nurseries her mother once sang, the ballads of boasting bards. Perhaps one day they will boast of her conquests. Perhaps on day statues will be erected of the Dragonborn with the dragon's head beneath her feet. She allows herself to fantasize, defeating the images of rape and torture with the images of death and victory. A contented smirk settles on her face as Alduin and all his guard fall to her again and again. Her Thu'um roars from her throat, just as powerful as theirs and from a body so many times smaller. Her blade slices through the bones and tendons and flesh of their wings, guided by the force in her bicep just as equal as theirs. Her armor dings as their teeth are deflected, for her body is as fortified as theirs. Her soul dances upon theirs as they swirl up from the corpses, for it is exactly the same as theirs. She is Dragonborn, cursed and yet just as powerful.

But the thing that pleases her the most, that splits her dry lips in the first smile she's had since staring down Alduin in Sovngarde with the true belief that she would prevail, is the thought that soon she will be able to see Paarthurnax again. Her friend, her friend, she must see him.

Brother, they called each other, but the Dragonborn can see no resemblance between the two dragons. Alduin is black, his scales gnarled and long, like the thorns of a rose. His eyes an empty flame of orange, only capable of one thing: destruction. Of innocents, of heroes, of friends, of the world, and most importantly, of himself. Paarthurnax is a soft silver, his scales wide and smooth along his throat. They are strong just by being, an armor crafted so well it has no need for the grandiose spears that thrust stiffly from Alduin's hide. His eyes are a brilliant blue, a sea of knowledge, wisdom, humility, a silent strength that doesn't have to be proven. Paarthurnax just is. Alduin is desperate to show that he is something more than that, and she finds it funny that a thousand year old inhuman monster could have some insecurity like a little boy.

But as she walks down the winding corridors with her chest puffed out by the airy comparison, the nagging voice in her mind reminds her she is not so different, weak in her own pride. She scoffs, asking where such a though could come from, and brushes it off just as she turns a corner into a brightly lit stone tunnel. This pathway is significant somehow, the floor covered in a thin, sleek quartz that shines with the dancing lives of the torches hugging the walls yards above her head.

Another dirty servant child is obliviously skipping down the hall, her calloused, cut feet delicately spinning in the air just over the cracks in the quartz. The Dragonborn stops mid-step. The display is beautiful, young, sweet, and elegant but also disgusting that the girl suffers so. It is a strange combination within the Nord, joy and rage. The girl's potato sack of a dress twirls out like a budding flower and her thin legs flex with a unique power as she lands upon her toes and takes a bow. It is wrong, so entirely wrong, that this wonderful soul is imprisoned here. She could mesmerize any bard or Jarl with her skill. When she rises, her greasy blonde hair parts to reveal her big green eyes and the freckles that curve over her button nose. She is older, sixteen? Seventeen? Her breasts swell under the tattered brown material. She could be a princess.

The fear that clutches her face into a tight wide-eyed grimace makes the Dragonborn wince. The teen's eyes begin to fill with tears, her lip trembles as she stutters, "I'm sorry, ma'am, I didn't know you were awake. Please don't tell him, I was going to get you in just a few minutes, please." The way she speaks is so terribly unnerving. Does she not know that she isn't a dragon?

She steps forward and kneels as the girl stares desperately at the rock below her feet. "Its fine, I won't tell him anything. I hate him, don't you know that?" She doesn't answer, just shakes her head as the tears begin to fall, cutting streams through the grime on her toes. "Hey, it's okay," she tries to reassure, reaching out to pat the servant's shoulder. She flinches from the touch, and so the hand drops awkwardly to the side. "Nothing will happen to you. Please, don't cry. I'm not your enemy, I won't hurt you. I won't let _him_ hurt you."

Her backbone stops quivering like a tautly pulled bow string, her tears dry just as quickly as they came. There is still a shuddering hiccup in her voice as she responds, "He won't hurt me as long as I bring you outside."

"Outside?"

"Yes, I was tasked to stay with you until you were up," she wipes her eyes on her sleeve, sniffling into the torn fabric, "then I was supposed to take you out to the gardens."

"Why would you need to do that? Are they having a meeting? Am I to be strung up for a public whipping?" The last question is a little harsh, and she regrets is as the slave flinches, but she doesn't apologize.

"No, Commander Beinvedgraan said they were orders from Alduin. A… gift." The Dragonborn prickles at this. Mercy and gifts. What does he think he can do, woo her into submission? She is not so disenchanted. Or stupid. "I'm just to watch you walk around. If you'd like to go…" The meek whisper trails off. The woman smiles and stands, ready to see the world.

"Of course we can go to the gardens… I never turn away presents from my adoring fans." The slave stiffens as though Alduin may hear the mockery and swallow them whole. "What is your name, child?"

"I am called Gogil." The harshness is entirely Dov, but she does not recognize the word. She would ask, demand to know why they're renaming children as if they have any right, but she will never allow him to know she spoke so freely with the girl. Just as the elf and boy ran, this girl is staying, trusting in her. Giving her a chance. She will not risk her life to chide Krosis, the resident King and no doubt overseer of the servants. Of everyone in this twisted mockery of a kingdom.

"And what is your real name? Who were you before this happened?"

Gogil stalls as the pair begins to walk towards the source of the light, a huge archway that displays a "garden" of statues and above the mountains-high stone walls there is the bright blue sky. Red banners skim the gentle breeze. There is no smoke today, no bustle of building. Do they have holidays here? The thought makes her shake her head. As they step across the invisible threshold and onto the soft, wet grass, the teenager relaxes. She has fulfilled her duty, no punishment can come.

"I was Selvia."

"Selvia?" The Dragonborn questions with mirth. That is a much better name. The girl stays at the door way, an alert chaperone. How ironic to be baby sitted by a child. Still, she walks out into the garden and twists around, eyes darting towards all corners. She does not know why Alduin has summoned her here, but she will make use of his mistake. She will find a way out, one she can take in the dead of night when this poor girl is not burdened with her keeping. "You are Selvia now." She is rewarded a small smile. Where are you from, Selvia?"

The girl rustles behind her, but stays silent. The walls are tall and smooth. She may be able to shout them down, but she has no idea how thick they are. She would look rather silly trying to topple a mountain when all the dragons came to the beacon of "Here I am! I'm trying to escape, come get me!" She would have to find a better way. Perhaps she should have joined the Thieves Guild in Riften. Vilkas was a great instructor, but hacking away even with seven blades would do her no good here.

"I was born in Cyrodiil, did you know that? Your name reminds me of one of my childhood friends, Fralvia. She had strong cheeks like your own. She couldn't dance so prettily, though."

She can hear the girl exhale, wanting to speak but held back by that fear of dragons. She once suffered the same, but that was before their flesh dripped from her blade. Now there was only a bitter anger, a hatred of dragons. A hatred of him.

"My mother was from Cyrodiil. I did not know you were an Imperial."

"Ah, that is because I am not! My parents travelled across the border when I was but a thought. My father had trouble with his business is Skyrim, too many competitors for a woodworker. People here are resourceful, independent for the most part. They would just make their own furniture. In Cyrodiil there was a demand from lazy nobles, and my father was able to fulfill it."

The girl giggles, the sound catching the Dragonborn's attention. She turns with a mock face of insult and luckily the girl doesn't pull away. She is blushing, is it from the dancing comment? How long has she been trapped here, kept away from warmth and comfort. From her mother and father. Her friends and all the boys that would have sent her flowers and love letters. It has only been a half hour together. Perhaps she can gain a friend. Perhaps they both can. "What's funny?"

"It's just… you're the Dragonborn."

"Really?"

This jest the girl frowns at. She makes note not to be so misbehaved. "You kill things. It's just strange to hear your father made chairs."

At this the woman grins and turns, walking further into the garden for better scrutiny. "I'll have you know he made the very best. A throne, once, with emeralds and pretty swirls."

"I guess you had to have parents. Sometimes people forget."

This statement brings a pause in the warrior's gate. Of course they did. Sometimes she forgot herself. Who was that girl, that kid that looked for gemstones in caves for her Papa? Who was she now? Did it matter, really, who she was? She was Dragonborn, fighter, the people's hope and protector. She would be Alduin's doom. That is the role life gave her; that was all that mattered.

"You did, too. Where are your parents?" The garden paths curve in all directions in an attempt to cover the dozens of acres kept here. A few flowers bud sporadically, but the point of the garden is not beauty and aromatics. Weeds and muddy puddles cover most of the land. They are from footprints she could sit inside. She looks again towards the sky, scans the top of the walls. Where are the dragons?

Selvia is following now as she steps further. They take the left most path so she can walk along the wall, inspecting for holes, tunnels, poorly matched blocks. Surely somewhere there is some mistake, after all these structures were built by slaves, untrained, working only from fear and not a love of craftsmanship. They cannot be perfect like her father's, surely there must be something. Somewhere.

Although the teen trails behind her, she can feel her disapproving, worried gaze. She does not want to be seen with the Dragonborn obviously looking for ways out. Why did Beinvedgraan give her such responsibility? When had she ever proven herself? When had she ever tried to stand out? "My parents are gone. There were many small villages here, once. It was many months ago that they were torn down and razed to create this city. They did not make it. I was given only this option," Selvia responds. The last sentence is deadpanned, as though it were obvious.

They turn the corner, the Dragonborn running her hand along the wall, squatting and tiptoeing, looking up and down and rapping her knuckles against the stone. There is no hollowness. These walls are thick, sturdy. Perhaps impenetrable.

"You won't find a way out," Selvia answers her silent question. "Trust me, we have all looked. Hundreds of times. The only door out in the whole palace is the front one. If you can walk down the stairs unnoticed, then you can escape. That is the only way, and so it is no way at all."

"Ha!" She scoffs. "There are always ways. If I have to kill Alduin-"

Suddenly she feels hands clutching her arms, desperately. She turns and see the look in Selvia's eyes. It's terrified, but even more so, it is angry. "Don't you ever say such a thing," she demands, shaking the older woman. Though she could shake her off and to the ground with a flick of her wrist, she allows this child to correct her. She is surprised, and frankly impressed, by her audacity. "You may not care for your life, but I will keep mine. You cannot see him, cannot hear him, but he is always near. Whether in Krosis, or some surveying dragon, or the eyes of a servant trying to climb to the top. If you threaten him, he will know. I will not allow you to be a fool."

"I know sometimes I may look it," she rolls her shoulders and Selvia lets go immediately. Her hands fall to her side and her head tilts to the ground like an obedient slave. "But I assure you, I am anything but a fool. I am not weak, I will not lay down. I understand you are strong in your own way, in the boundaries he has wrongly trapped you within," she assures, holding the girl's chin, as she is a foot shorter, and pressing her for eye contact. "But I will fulfill my destiny. You don't have to believe that, I know how this seems, how it looks, how it sounds. I came here in bondage, flocked by undead, beaten and triumphed over. But that is temporary. Battles can be lost and wars still be won."

The girl shakes her off and faces the palace. "Is that what this is now? A war?" The Dragonborn faces the high walls, staring up into the sky and wishing so much that she didn't just have a dragon's soul, but also a dragon's wings. Wishing she had Paarthurnax to lift her above these insurmountable slabs.

"Child, it always was. There are just more soldiers now."

Selvia shudders and walks away from the woman. She never asked for a war, and she will not fight one. She was a dancer, not long ago. She had a family. She had friends. She had a boy she could sit in fields with at night and hold hands. She had a future where she could cross the trade routes between holds and gain the attention of some important woman who could teach her more. One day, she would make her way to Solitude and settle down in all the hustle and bustle of the capital city. _That_ was where she belonged, but here is where she stayed. Where she worked in fear of the only sanction ever given to a servant: death.

"Come, Dragonborn, we must step away from the walls at the very least. If someone sees you looking for nooks and crannies to take off in, we'd both be punished. And I will take no whippings for you."

"If they ever tried, you can believe I would not let them," she replies, but still heads towards the center of the garden. There are huge chunks of stone in the center. They must have been left by the now suspiciously missing workers. One will clearly become a dragon, its horns reaching up from the rock and into the sky. She sits atop this one and grabs hold of the horns as though they were the reigns of a stallion she rode into battle. Once she topped Alduin, perhaps she could ride him around his wretched followers. Wouldn't that be a sight?

Her chaperone stands vigilant beside her. The flow of conversation has been dammed by her grand declarations of war. They just exist, silent, for several minutes. The Dragonborn grapples for conversation starters.

"So, who is Beinvedgraan? You called him chief, right?"

Selvia shakes her head. "Commander. He is leading on of Alduin's newest divisions."

"Divisions?"

This time the girl scoffs. "You were the one talking of war. Isn't war fought by armies?"

The Nord rests her cheek against one of the carved spires. "I must have been dead for quite some time if he's already erected an army."

Selvia shuffles awkwardly away. "You were 'dead' for weeks. But now here you are, and there must be a reason for it."

"Alduin tells me it is his mercy," she laughs but it is a bit too bitter. "I think it is my second chance to be what I was always meant to become. Selvia, I know we have just met. It's been only an hour. You know nothing of me other than I have lost, terribly. You have no reason to put your faith in me. No reason to risk your own life. But you are the first soul to speak to me without condescension or terror. If I could win, if I could prove it to you, would you help me?" At this the girl spins around, arm flying out in front of her in bewilderment.

"Do I look like a militant to you?!" She shouts, voice tipped in accusation.

"I would never ask you to fight for me." She chews her lip thoughtfully and a dot of blood appears there. She licks it away absentmindedly. "Never mind, it was a silly question." Selvia just nods and finally takes a seat on the block across the path. "So he has commanders? How many dragons do you think now pervade your skies?"

"Hundreds. More than I have ever seen in all the books and heard in all the songs from my childhood."

"And how many does he name Commander?"

"I only know of Beinvedgraan, but I know there are more. He is the only one that stays close to the palace." They both look towards the walls again, speaking freely but ready for the dark wings to descend upon them at any moment.

"I see." Silence comes between them again. Pillowy clouds float over the black barricades. Shadows are cast on the garden. She feels the question rise in her throat, but she pushes it back over and over. Selvia picks at a weed by her bare feet. "Does he… Alduin, I mean, stay at the palace?"

"Loan Dovah." The command comes like a whisper on the wind. The women are coated in a thick blackness not from any cloud. Selvia jumps from her seat and smooths out her dress as though Alduin cared about presentation. Not at all unless, of course, it was the presentation of himself. She opens her mouth to speak, to apologize vehemently for whatever she can think of, but she is stopped by the elder woman's hand.

The Dragonborn stands and faces the demon perched delicately atop the slabs of stone. The sun is eclipsed by his jagged form. Presenting. Pretentious. "Hi los ni het," she states simply, shrugging.

His wings unfurl and he glides to the garden, one wing grasping a statue as his other claws come to dig into the soft earth. "Zu'u fen daal fah hi. Mahfaeraak." It sounds like something a lover might say, but drips with a sickening poison that turns her stomach and thrashes against her rib cage. His head lowers, tilting, the expression like an expectant dog who has weighed the thing before it as no threat. Selvia feels the tension in the air, looks from Dragonborn to Dovah, and slowly lowers herself into the seat hoping with a racing heart and sweating brow that neither will notice her. They don't.

Just as she settles against the stone, the Nord woman stands, body shaking with pure rage. "Mahfaeraak? Mahfaeraak los zah. Ol zah ol hin laas!" And she strides right across the yards between them until her hair whips in the foul breaths he releases. As she approaches he sits back onto his haunches, not from nervousness or avoidance. His head rises straight into the clouds, his wings cut through the air. He is showing how much he towers over her. She cranes her neck up and keeps her glare focused on his huge, bright eye. The nictitating membrane slithers over, giving it a hazy appearance as he equally regards her. What a daring little female to put on such a show for the slave girl.

"Nii los folaas wah tinvaark voth thu'um. Zul, Joor. Tell me you haven't forgotten your own tongue trying to play with mine?" She would rather stay with the Dovs' language than expose such petty tongue lashings to the girl behind her. But she will not back down from Alduin. Even in Sovngarde he had to utterly tear her apart, rip her hand almost from its wrist and her spine from her back just to get her to sit down. And die. That part she is still not used to.

She places her hands on her hips, a leg kicked out casually to one side. It's a stance she might have taken with her nagging mother as a rebellious teen, but the pose of utter indifference is enough of a mocking answer for now. She stares him down, forgets the girl is even behind her. The show they put on is like two quarreling children, and her response is just as foolish. "I would never play with your tongue, Alduin." The double meaning is immediately understood. Selvia gasps in horror. He lurches forward. Upper body crashing down into the dirt and mud below, a quake sounds through the garden, small stones scattering as far away from his intimidating form as they can.

"But I will play with you on it as I drain the blood from your corpse!" He roars, giant gaping maw discharging a tornado of fetid air and spittle. She crosses her arms but refuses to step down. "I thought I would give you a nice warm day to explore the world in, to see what you have allowed to happen. I give you this opportunity and you have no appreciation?" His massive head swings from side to side and she can feel the whoosh of the air he casts from this simple action. He is large, it is true. He is powerful. But he is conquerable all the same. They all are.

She swivels on her heel to turn away from him, to disregard him with another cocky remark, but she is immediately halted as he steps forward, suddenly crossing any space between them, and lowers his head until his chin brushes her shoulder. She shudders and freezes, unsure of his, and therefore her, next move.

He answers at once. "You there, slave child." The girl's eyes are so wide they might tear and her body seizes in tremors of pure fright. Her dangerously thin arms are limp but her fingers clutch her dress with such force the knuckles are bright white against her tan skin tone. "I see Beinvedgraan chose you for this duty, and he apparently made the proper choice." The compliment stills her shaking just barely. The Dragonborn's own chest is rising and falling dramatically, her breathing ragged, her head unturned but from the corner of her eyes she focuses on the black scales brushing her ear. He cannot, he must not, he will not…

"But, you would understand if I had to eat you, yes, to punish this insolent, disobedient, childish woman?"

And then her hands are on him. Her mind is empty except for the need to do something _right now._ She ducks under his strong jaw, her arms widen as far as they possible can and she grabs either side of his face. He is taken aback but he does not show it. _This creature dares to touch me?_

_What am I doing what am I doing what am I doing._ "You will not kill her, Alduin. Your commander tasked her to come here; that is no fault of her own. You can punish me in other ways, worse ways," the girl recoils, "I assure you." Alduin flings his head and the Dragonborn flies backward, landing on the beaten ground, her back slamming against a stone statue that topples over and becomes a dozen jagged pieces. She sees Sovngarde's swirling rainbow sky as his teeth grow ever closer, hears the dying screams of her comrades as the girl begins to sob.

"And I will use them, Kulaas." His snout digs into her stomach and chest: pressing, crushing, suffocating. She cannot see his eyes, they are above her. He is huge, he is dangerous, he is powerful, he is King. Selvia is trying desperately to stifle her cries, she is standing on the other side of the stone as if it might somehow protect her from him. The Dragonborn must be quick. And accepting.

Her hands come up to his scales again, rest gingerly on the hard, coarse plates. She doesn't know why she feels compelled to do so, she just does. His hot, acrid breaths rush against her, hair and dress flying, her eyes closing tight as they dry out instantly. She has to redirect him, has to get him to leave or to let the girl go before she is so horrified she will never be able to help. And she needs her to help.

"I know, Alduin," she presses her forehead against the broad flat surface of his snout. "I am brash and angry, and I am strong so do not forget after one victory. But I am not stupid. You have reign here, I accept that. For now. Let the girl go." Though she urges in words, her voice remains calm and emotionless. She will not beg. She will not demand. She will just state and see how he responds.

"Ru, Kiir. Leave!" His voice is a blast that would carry her away if she were not caged under his own jaw. The whole world rattles beneath it. She hears the girl's tiny, graceful feet slosh wildly across the garden as she darts for the archway, the eventual pattering making clear she has made it safely inside. Away from him. From them.

An electricity comes to life between them once more, shocking and crackling in the heavy air, thin tendrils of hot energy lashing against their bodies. It seems to consume her, jolting her soul into the swirling, frenzied dance. It presses fiercely against her flesh, looking for a way out, a way to the soul bared before her. She wants to claim it so terribly she leans even further into Alduin.

He pulls away then, the scales slowly sliding beneath her skin as he does. The texture of them is oddly satisfying, like rubbing your hands against a tree's bark. Her skin tingles and so she places them on her knees, willing the sensation away as she gets to her feet again. The static fades, her soul goes back to sleep. Her back is sore, but not in pain. The humiliation is a firmer prickling. The anger, it is even worse.

She does not have to think of something to say. He speaks first. "You test me, Zaam. But I will not give up a worthy servant." She cannot tell which he is speaking of, so she does not bother to fight his haughty displays of dominion. Not yet can she defeat him, but one day she will be able to cut that thick neck from his shoulders. To succeed, she must last till that day.

But that doesn't mean she has to live a groveling life to do so. "What is it you came for, Alduin?" He leans low onto his wings, digs up the earth as he presses further down.

"I only wished to see how my charge was enjoying the fresh air and sunshine. You had not risen in days." He tsks and looks out to the sky. She does not follow his gaze. She looks at him. He turns back to her then, the eyes alight with a halo of blue fire. "I missed you."

She snorts incredulously. "Wasn't enough spying on me in the baths, hmm?"

He scowls. "As Krosis said, there is no interest in you. You are weak, small, squishy, already dominated. Do not be so narcissistic. You must know, yes, that I am always watching. You should not think that I care."

She cannot tell the game he is trying to play. He misses her, he mocks her. He does not care, he thinks that will wound her? Is he just not certain which path, the deceitful warmth or harsh coldness, will bring her more pain? Why would he ever consider the first to be damaging? She will not be bothered by his petty grooming, so there is no point in such niceties.

She turns away from him then, he does not follow. She returns to her seat and settles into it. She is not threatened by him, nor will she raise a threat against him. She needs information first.

"Why is no one here today?"

"I sent them away."

"Why?"

"It is not your concern."

"You gave them a holiday as some gift to me?"

"No, they are all hard at work. Elsewhere." He answered. She must carefully craft her questions.

"Such as?"

A sounds gurgles in his throat and pierces her ears. He is laughing. It is a nauseating noise. "Such as burning the fields from here to Riften."

* * *

><p>Beinvedgraan – A made up name. Foul Black Rout. It's not a name of punishment, but rather a description of his methods in the Dragon War. Trickery, mostly.<p>

Gogil – Goblin. Yeah they're assholes.

Hi los ni het. – You were not here. Some words from Thu' that weren't canon on the wikia.

Zu'u fen daal fah hi. Mahfaeraak. – I will come for you. Forever.

Mahfaeraak? Mahfaeraak los zah. Ol zah ol hin laas! – Forever? Forever is finite. As finite as your life!

Nii los folaas wah tinvaark voth thu'um. Zul, Joor. – It is wrong to speak the Dragon language. Human voice, mortal.

Kulaas. – Princess.

Ru, Kiir. – Run, child.

THANK YOU to those who continue to dig up this embarrassingly old, forgotten thing and getting my favs up to 99! Can we make it to 100? ;) I guess that will depend on how well I behave and update, huh? Anyways, thanks for keeping me reminded of this story. You all deserve a finished tale, no matter what my life is like. I shouldn't have started it if I didn't promise to finish it.

The dragon language has been updated on the wikia since I've last checked. Earlier translations may not be incorrect. I am debating sticking to the new list, or still using Hiu and such as second person pronouns so I can more easily write dialogue. A few other resources use what seem to be invented pronouns to solve this problem. Opinions? I have had some ask me to include the translations in-text so they don't have to scroll back and forth. How does everyone else feel about it? I don't want to force awkward scrolling and pull you out of the story, but I also don't like seeing the interruptions in the body of the story, so I'm not sure what to do.

Here's the link to the version on Livejournal. There will be many chapters between "intimate" scenarios as we start out, but it was requested and later on you may want to read the full story over there. Fanfiction removes the url, so google Skyrim Kink Meme and paste the following after the /.

__1639 . h...t...m...l _?thread=822119#t822119_


	8. Disgrace

Thank you all for the new reviews, follows, and favs. I made it to 100, so here's a celebration. Another update without a year's wait! Yippee!

I have decided to condense some of my chapters. Instead of one major thing happening each short chapter with a "nonaction", poetic chapter (dreams, memories, exposition) between each, I'm going to mosey on along so if I take forever to update, at least I am giving up some of the good stuff and I can finish this story faster. I feel quite terrible for having drug you all along for years with extended silences. I am thankful for you all. I know this story is changing from a kinky fill to something I hope will be deeper, and I hope this does not disappoint. The wait is long, but I think I will earn my M rating over and over. I doubt I will make author's notes again unless I need advice, so see you at the ending! Please, message or review if you have questions or suggestions for scenes you'd like to see. Although I've nailed down my broad plot, this was a kmeme prompt after all, so yes I will consider some situations I could add in for more content. I'm excited to get to use my additional characters soon. Yes, characters, not just the slave girl. See if you can guess who will make a larger appearance! : ) Also I had (to me) a neat idea, with probably no lore basis or any bit of sense, but I quite like it. Since this is my last A/N, when you read it next chapter you should definitely let me know how you feel about it!

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><p>A breeze flows through the thick field of static, electricity, fiery currents between them, unaware of how its innocent rustling of leaves and flower buds is enough to bring a ringing to her ears. That is all she hears, the ringing, the piercing high pitched squeal as the clanky cogs in her mind turn. The dragons go to Riften. Why? Has the world gone so mad, so wrong, in her absence that an army now flies to ravage its first city?<p>

She looks out to the clear skies, can imagine spirals of ash and smog, the screams of souls wrenching free of broken bodies, flames licking up into the horizon. She turns to him again, sees he has risen to his full height. His neck, as thick as a tree's trunk, stretches high in to the sky. He is even larger than his towering brethren. That is something she cannot get used to, being around such a massive being without constant fighting and bloodshed. Without the adrenaline in her veins, the pounding in her head to kill kill kill, she drinks in the enormity of him and feels incredibly small.

She has to crane her own neck practically perpendicular to her spine just to catch his eyes, but catch them she does. It is not the first time her mind remarks on the way those huge orbs mirror the very thing she is imagining, brilliant blue cut by radiant red. A fire in his own eyes that burns all the way down to his black soul. She thinks it may consume her as a heat blooms in her stomach, but she quickly blinks the thought away, fighting not to question where it came from. She won't even consider confronting the warmth pooling within her. "You really wish to start a war, Alduin?"

His monstrous head turns, one eye peering down at her with haughty mirth. The scales along his mouth crinkle as they curl up into what can only be his best smirk, sliced across his face like an open wound, sharp fangs bleeding through. "The war is won, Kulaas. I have claimed the world." He lowers his head smoothly, the muscles in the curvature of his neck tensing and loosening as they balance the new position of his weighty skull. Her own throat tenses, her heartbeat clear in the veins of her throat. She thinks only she can hear it, the racing beats as she fills with rage and… fear. But he can hear it, see it, smell her entire essence around him, practically taste her on his tongue. Oh, how he wants to.

He falters. Taste her blood, of course. He wants to kill her, that is all. She will be a meal, a triumphant, special meal, but still just food for his fury. A spot to remove in his cleansing of the world. That is all. _That is all._

She stomps away, ever so childish. Her arms fling out dramatically, and a simple unfurling of his wings bathes her in darkness. She ignores his one-up-man-ship.

"And you really think that they'll just bend over, let you kill them? A city ran by criminals might be the last place you should test your might." Her hands find her hips. He appreciates the way they curve beneath the thin brown tunic, wide and supple, so unlike the hard, sharp haunches of the females of his kind. Yes, his pet was exemplary for her kind, but no match to those species superior to her. He almost felt pity, to know she could not comprehend her infinite inferiority. But he will teach her, he will inform his little entertainer while she loses everything she has ever known, her family, her friends, her lovers, her acquaintances, her kind, until she begs to be put out of her imperfect misery. And then he will hold on to her even longer. He will not let her go until they are the last beings in existence, just him and her in the dark plane left when he has consumed Nirn. Never again would Akatosh dare to take his birthright, to threaten him with a challenger who was so soft, so weak, so pliant that she became his slave. His.

He steps forward, taloned wing crushing the stone and dirt beneath as the ground gives way to his force, sinking in on itself. "I will not kill them all. Surely some will be so desperately selfish as to offer their life in service? As you serve me."

"I will _never_ serve you." She doesn't know why his simple mocking remark inflames her as it does (she should be use to this, should be calm and one step ahead) but her chest and throat swell with power. She does not feel that magic stopper her throat; there is no gag this time. His eyes widen, almost imperceptibly so, but she is trained to pick up his minutest of expressions, and to savor them.

"FUS RO DAH!"

Her shout, her expertly mastered Thu'um, strikes him with such strength his head actually pulls back, the edges of his wings flapping in the gales. Stones behind him crack and splinter, taking all her rage, desperation, fear, disgust, pain, loneliness, and something else, something small and somehow both warm and dark, something foreign and unfathomable. Or, at least, something she does not wish to comprehend. Her soul alights within her, the swirling force somehow perceptible within her physical form. It licks at the edges of her body, trying desperately to escape into this reality, to swallow Alduin's. She has felt this dance before, but knows it will likely never complete. Unlike the other dragons, Mirmulnir and Sahloknir and Viinturuth and so many others, his soul will not be so easily claimed. But, she muses, neither will hers.

Alduin straightens, takes a deep breath she can practically feel as the air around her is sucked into his maw. His icy gaze pins her and then his eyes turn to molten lava. She feels the terrible, desperate desire to run, run as fast as she can, but she steadies her legs. Slowly, she takes a step back, each small distance gained immediately lost as the Dragon King stalks closer. Like a predator, he lowers close to the ground, flat, smooth, sleek, and oh so dangerous. Enraged.

_That contemptible little rat._

The adrenaline starts to pump through her, so harshly she can practically feel her veins swell with every bursting surge. Her breath quickens, shallows. Her eyes glare up into her captor's, challenging him. She has created quite a… situation, but it was wonderful to feel her voice, her real Voice, rip through her throat. It was even more pleasing to see Alduin's head snap back, unprepared for her daring move.

But she has suffered many days, physically and mentally, her body practically malnourished. Her strength simpers and leaves her to face the monster she has awakened. She steels herself for his shout, raises her arms to somehow deflect whatever wind or fire or ice he is about to send her way.

But, sickeningly, he does something unexpected. Instead of an earth shattering roar, she hears the soft whisper.

"Hah."

Immediately she feels her mind splinter, her eyes glaze. No no no NO. He will not bend her will, he will not take control so easily. She will not be dominated. She will not be restrained. Her body is rooted in its spot, awaiting Alduin's command. Her fragile synapses fire and blow out as she sends direction after direction to her limbs but none listen. Her own body will not obey her.

"Dov."

The strangest sensation envelops her. She has been frozen but now she is truly, completely still. Her soul, once stirring inside her, fighting frantically to reach Alduin's, moves no longer. It is painful and it is wrong to feel her entire essence seized in this beast's terrible spell.

_Please,_ he cannot hear her, _please no more. Release me._

Her lips must be moving, silent but pressed on by her last reserves of power, and she hears it again. His laugh. He rests his jaw flat against the ground, peering up at her with wide eyes, mocking the way in which he always saw her. Tiny, helpless, weak. His tongue, long and soft and warm, curls against her ankle. She wants to scream, oh please just let her scream. But she is silent; her mind, body, and soul ready to obey his every command. He yanks suddenly and she flies backwards, crashes, and his tongue drags her even closer to him. The slimy appendage is as strong as a man's arms, pulling her effortlessly while her tunic tears across the stones and sticks in the garden. She feels tiny rivulets of blood trace her battered back. But the physical pain is nothing as she stares straight ahead, eyes lost in the sky, unable to even glace down without his permission. She is terrified, her dream, her nightmare, rushing back to her, flooding her senses as his tongue trails up her calf, licking across her goosebumped skin. She feels him inside her all over again, ripping her apart, breaking her open, taking over her body for his own calculated curiosity.

But this is not some wolf in sheep's clothing, some darkened man in the recesses of her mind speaking with Alduin's voice. This is the beast. This is her demon and she is in its personal Hell.

His wings fall to either side of her head, cloaking her in darkness, imprisoning her yet again. He leans down to meet her eyes, his snout presses into her chest. A simple push and he buries her into the ground, crushing her ribs. She coughs, fears they may break, but resolves her eyes to be expressionless, or at least not as horrified and jumbled as she feels.

"Do not ever dare to strike me again, Dragonborn. I keep you alive as a trinket, as a show of your race's pathetic inadequacies, as a reminder that Nirn has no hope. At any moment of any day I can kill you, be rid of you, and lose not a single thing. Zu'u dein hin laas. Do not forget. Your only hope is to please me enough to earn your keep. Without a future you have no hope of escape or of triumph. Though, you will never have such wishes come true." He lifts a wing, the talon curling over her throat. He streaks it across her flesh and it opens like butter, a thin, angry welt rising to release droplets of her blood. His tongue snakes out again, licking up the irony substance. He moans, feral, a rush of hot air fanning out from his nostrils. This, she knows, is his most revolting sound.

Tears form at the corners of her eyes and do not ask his permission to fall. He is a dragon, but in this moment it is his seeming humanity that makes him most dangerous. She is dreaming all over again. She is being broken, tarnished, utterly damaged beyond repair all over again. She is not just scared, she is appalled. Bile chokes in her silent throat.

She looks into his orb, shudders at the clear nictating membrane slides over it. There is something strange there, something so threatening, something so angry. But he does not stare at her. He does not stare at anything, obviously lost in his own mind.

Her fingers begin to twitch and she readies herself to thrash against him, to hit and scratch and bite and do anything she can to wriggle out of this beast's grasp. To bring his teeth down upon her and finally kill her.

But he does not make her struggle. She watches him, wide eyed, stunned, and he finally snaps out of his thoughts. He catches her gaze. His eyes darken, she thinks with shame but quickly changes her mind. Such a narcissistic creature could not possibly know the word.

And then he rises and his wings take him to the sky, his tail whips up her paralyzed form as he flies away. The tip grazes just enough to leave a mark across her stomach. The gusts beneath his wings push her down and lash her hair wildly. Stones and debris pelt her skin as they scatter from his take off.

And then he is gone.

When her body returns to her control, she stands slowly. She looks along the walls of the garden for any beings watching her.

And then, she runs. She runs straight back to the room Alduin has deemed her prison.

* * *

><p>The black dragon glides through the sky, turning on his side, dipping low to the horizon only to fling himself up with such force that trees bend their trunks away from his powerful wings. A strange, bothersome buzzing runs through his body and he throws himself through the air as if able to simply shake it off like drops of water.<p>

Ever since he came into this world, he has only known one thing. That he must find her, beat her, and in doing so conquer the whole human race. They are pathetic, small creatures, with no sense of responsibility. They collectively pour all their hope into one being, of course someone other than them, to rise to the needs and wants of the people. Crush that one vessel of courage and the rest fall back, showing their bellies and begging for a savior. That is one good thing, he thinks, that the Dragonborn possesses. She takes care of herself, no matter how poorly. The only worthy rival in all this world. He would expect a disappointment, a boredom to come from her easy defeat. But instead he feels something wholly different, an excitement, and it disgusts him. No, she disgusts him. He has never felt so unnatural, so wrong before and it is all her fault. His heart thrums in his chest, accusing him. He must kill her. But he will not.

What is he becoming?

He turns to a village tucked quietly against the base of a mountain. In all his eons, he has never once questioned himself. He roars, splits the sky open. Meteors crush the town to dust.

He is still not satisfied. He cannot think of what would placate him.

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><p>Days become weeks and the Dragonborn settles into a basic routine. She rises in the morning, eats whatever has been placed outside her dorm, practices the same dances Vilkas has taught her, bathes (alone), and then walks through the palace on the same reconnaissance mission she will always have. Learn the routine of others and look for holes to slip through. She tries to listen for any details of Riften, but hears nothing. In war, silence is never good. The defeat of Riften must have been so easy as to be unremarkable.<p>

She has not seen, nor heard of, Alduin in all this time. Whatever happened in the garden she pushes down and out from her mind. The best way to beat something is to know it, and not understanding Alduin as clearly as she once thought has unsettled her greatly. Her plans have melted away and reformed, superficially. Step 2, contact the Companions, however that may happen. Warn them of the impending battles. Hopefully supply them with something more than just "Be ready." Step 3, escape the palace. Step 4, confront, and defeat, Alduin with her brothers at her side in battle.

Step 1, she resolves, is to contact Paarthurnax. Oh how she misses him. She has made many friends: Vilkas, that clever mercenary Marcurio, Lydia, Derkeethus. But none compare to Paarthurnax. He was her teacher; he truly sheltered her under his wings. Yes, the Greybeards helped her. The Companions welcomed her. Each person has given her something, conversation or skills or items. But Paarthurnax was the being who was able to calm her, to guide her properly. She had spent weeks at a time atop that mountain with him, learning, practicing, failing, and finally triumphing. All Shouts she tested with him. All stories she shared with him. All hopes she held in him. And when the sun would dip below into the valley, as darkness fell, she would curl up beside him to sleep. He never questioned her, never admonished her, never pushed her away. He would just fall asleep as though their friendship was the most natural thing in the world. He reminded her of her father but also something else, something she could never place.

It was both ironic and terrible that his brother would be her greatest threat and doom. That Paarthurnax had trained her precisely to kill Alduin, and that one goal she had never reached. She had failed them both. And if there was anything to drive her to escape, it was the desire to prove to Paarthurnax all the time and energy he had invested in her was worth something.

She wanted to show that she deserved the dragon soul that made up half of her being. That she was not just some strong human, but that she was as much dragon, inside, as he or Alduin was. The latter would never accept this, hell bent on his genocide, but Paarthurnax could understand, if she could just prove it.

She did not know where this need for reassurance arose from, surely she could feel her soul inside of her, could feel the strength it gave to every Thu'um, could feel that she was the destiny the world needed.

And it still needed her. She could not give in now.

Another punch meets the table she has set on its side, splintering the wood. Her kick lands, her heel digging into the dent she has just made. The table is not quite as unyielding as Alduin's scaly hide, but if she closes her eyes she can see his face whipping back from every hit and Fus Ro Dah she can manage.

She pauses, panting and pouring sweat. Her legs are mushy from fatigue. The Alduin of her mind lies defeated at her feet.

This, this is what she is good at. Working. Growing stronger. This is what she will focus on, not Alduin's strange glances, not her own confusing thoughts, not her broken past and certainly not her uncertain future.

She sits on the floor, exhausted and needy for oxygen. She leans forward to take in her appearance in the shiny black granite. She sees it then, the scar across her throat. She touches it gingerly with her fingers and can almost feel his tongue sliding across her skin again. She growls and claws at the line, her blunt nails digging it open again, blood budding from the wound. She continues to slash away at her own neck, ripping the freshly-healed skin. The scar that forms now will be from her own doing, not his.

Satisfied, she brushes the blood away and rises to begin her habitual exploration of the grounds. The slave children spot her self harm and shrink away, but she merely smirks, ruffles one boy's hair as she passes by with all the fluidity of a queen.

When she conquers The World Eater, a queen is exactly what she will be.

* * *

><p>Kulaas - Princess.<p>

Zu'u dein hin laas. - I keep your life.


End file.
